


Snippets

by Severnlight, SpellCleaver



Series: Swords and Starflowers [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Flufftober2020, Gen, angstober2020, whumptober2020, x-tober2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 41
Words: 39,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severnlight/pseuds/Severnlight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpellCleaver/pseuds/SpellCleaver
Summary: A series of ficlets set in the Swords and Starflowers AU, written for various October challenges, anno domini Palpatinei 2020.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader, Luke Skywalker & Han Solo, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Luke Skywalker, Padmé Amidala & Luke Skywalker, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Sheev Palpatine & Anakin Skywalker
Series: Swords and Starflowers [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838371
Comments: 136
Kudos: 270
Collections: Angstober 2020, Flufftober 2020, X-tober 2020





	1. Day 01 [Angstober]: “I did it for you.”

The world was a sea of pain, alive with ebbs and flows of piercing anguish, and the man, bandaged in wraps of fine silk and linen, was drowning. He hoped and begged for the release of death, but death wouldn’t come. Instead, the sounds and whispers around him grew louder, and a sharp tug on his flayed nerves thrust him back to reality. A reality too excruciating for him to grasp. 

“It hurts…” he mouthed the words, but no sound came out. “It hurts so much…”

Someone used magic to take the edge of his pain off, like a soothing balm passing over his contorted body. 

Anakin took a shaky breath and tried to open his eyes. He couldn’t tell whether he succeeded. There was just a blur of light, followed by a blur of darkness.

“Where…” he tried, his voice hoarse, weak, foreign, “where am I?”

In the silence that followed, he sensed a familiar, powerful presence, before he heard the response.

“Home, son. Finally, back home.”

That wasn’t right… Home was with Padmé now, in the Lake Country... Anakin tried to lick his cracked lips. He sensed others in the room as well. Healers. The chief among them brought a water sponge to his mouth. The droplets seared his flesh like a fiery venom.

Anakin sucked in a breath, turning his face away. His body was one raging wound.

“Home?…” He managed.

“Yes, my boy,” came the even response. 

“Father?…” he moaned, and panic settled with a steel grip at the base of his throat. “I can’t see…”

“You suffered… grave injuries.”

Flashes of what he last remembered struck him with horrifying finality. They had fought at their manor in the Lake Country. She had crushed his heart… told him that she meant to leave him. And then Obi-Wan had stepped in, and Anakin had challenged him. The duel had quickly turned destructive... A vision of Padmé, struck by a falling beam, burned like a hot poker through his mind. Him, rushing after her, taking a blind hit from a spell, walls crumbling down before he could reach her, and the explosion… tossing him down two stories to the steep bank of the river below. The sound of his leg bones snapping, mangled underneath the remnants of an archway, and his entire being gone wild with shock and rending fear for Padme and their unborn child. And then the fires had started, flames licking the heavy curtains caught between piles of wood, stone, and rubble, creeping all around. He thought he remembered Obi-Wan, picking up his kyberblade. He must have lost consciousness from the smoke. And now… evidently, the fire had gotten to him, and he was just a remnant himself… an anguished, worthless, charred lump of flesh even the flames had only deemed fit to leave behind.

“Argh… No!...” His bandaged arm swung wildly as if to push the thought away, which earned him a barbed jolt of agony. His eyes searched for his father, in vain. He stilled, and put all his hopes and fears on the next question.

“Padmé… Where is… Padmé?”

“We combed through the ashes of the manor, Anakin. There were many deaths. Unfortunately… we can’t quite tell who was who.”

A scream rose in Anakin’s chest and caught in his raw throat.

“No… “ His bloodshot eyes turned wide towards his guardian’s voice. He barely managed a whisper. “Please. Please, Sire… you must… search for her.”

Anakin had not asked his sire for anything at all within the past two years, let alone used the word “please”. Palpatine found it most gratifying.

“I am afraid I have grave news, son. Everything I warned you about has come to pass. The Council of Mages turned against us. We are facing an open Rebellion. Obi-Wan Kenobi was a traitor all along. And such a close friend to… your wife. But we did search for her. We even used that amulet she’d given you to try and track her life Force.”

Anakin’s breath quickened to a harsh series of rasps. Then, his Lord father spoke the unthinkable.

“She is gone.”

There was a loud bang in the room, and the tall diamond-pane windows shattered in a vacuum of eerie silence. Shards of glass hit the paved courtyard far below like a deadly hailstorm. Inside, the wooden cabinetry by the window sills exploded in a burst of splinters. One of the healers gasped and fell to the floor - a piece of an ornately painted table leg now embedded in his calf. The woven carpet contorted, then spread its length out with impossible strain, shredding its rich pattern to ribbons. The head healer surreptitiously wiped a trickle of blood from her nose.

Oh, the boy had so much power! Lord Palpatine took a deep breath and smiled. He could indeed hope for the very probable outcome of the Naberrie heiress’s death. But even if she had somehow managed to survive, he would find great use from that turn of events as well. He would continue searching not for her, but for the child she was carrying. 

Anakin’s shields were down, he’d been unable to raise them in his condition. So the elderly man whispered the rune-words, and put a bind on his ward’s magic - to prevent further destruction, and to bring him to heel throughout the long process of recovery ahead. Anakin screamed, his rage pulsating like a living beast in the space between them.

“Ah… I can feel your anger, my son… But rest assured. This treachery against us did not go unpunished.”

He was not certain whether his charge registered any of his words, but he continued on, voice brimming with satisfaction. The wounded healer stopped fussing and snapped his head to full attention.

“Our legions have taken the High Citadel of Corusca. The Mage Council is no more, and the Senate remains presently at our mercy. I am now Emperor of all Galactia, and the core city-states dare not raise their heads.”

The smile spread widely on the elderly Lord’s face, but the mirth did not reach his eyes as he cast a piercing look at his ward.

“You should know that I did it for you, Anakin. For the noble legacy of house Palpatine, to which I now welcome you, as my dutiful son, once again. Let this be a valuable lesson. Taught through scars that you shall now, unfortunately, have to bear for the rest of your life.”

Anakin’s chest rose and fell quickly, tortured sobs escaping the disfigured lips. Good. Let him rage. Palpatine had had enough of his adopted son’s tepid defiance over the years. But he knew just how to wield his rage.

“I… will do as you ask… Just find her… she can’t be dead… find her.”

“Ahh… I assure you, I will put all our resources behind it, my boy. And meanwhile, I shall look forward to completing your training.”

Two healers entered the room, carrying fresh stacks of silk bandages, linen wraps, and jars with an amber-colored, sticky ointment for treating burns. Palpatine turned to the head healer.

“Do not numb his senses for the first three days. It is the nature of a mage that the keener they feel the pain, the faster they heal. I have bound his conscious use of magic, so you should not fear any further… disruptions.”

And moreover, he thought, some lessons were best learned through copious amounts of suffering. With one last look at his stricken ward, Lord Palpatine waved a hand, and took the pain-numbing shield away. One of the healers attempted to touch a bandage, and Anakin’s scream filled the room. 

Palpatine turned to leave, giving last orders to the guards posted by the door: 

“Restrain him if you must,” he spoke with casual ease, “and do get someone to fix up this mess.”

He spent the rest of the afternoon in the rock garden of his estate, meditating on his gains, his losses, and the grand mysteries of the Force itself. He’d pushed the balance heavily in his favor today, and he was deeply satisfied. Everything was proceeding exactly the way he had foreseen. And Anakin’s injuries, while severe, had left him far from useless. Perhaps, they had even made him more pliable.

At sunset, the new Emperor returned to the dining hall of his ancestral castle, and enjoyed a tasting of a plethora of his finest wines, including a splendid vintage bottle of Nebbiolo he had kept in store just for the occasion, as an accompaniment to an exquisite seven-course meal. Grand victories ought to be celebrated. Anakin’s raw screams did not subside for quite some time after dinner. Good — at least that ruled out any severe, lasting damage to his lungs.


	2. Day 01 [Flufftober]: In the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Han teaches Luke how to pick locks.

Han Solo was just a smuggler who _occasionally_ worked for the Rebellion. He occasionally worked for the Empire—at least he used to, before morals had grown on him like a fungus. He’d worked for the Hutts as well, Luke knew—they’d first _met_ in Tatooine, when Luke was a child and Ben had hired him for the Rebellion for the first time—but now he had as high a bounty from them as Madam Mothma did from Palpatine.

So. Here he was. Stuck with the Rebels, who at least never allied with the Hutts—like the Empire did—and at least paid somewhat well.

That wasn’t why he was here, in Luke’s tent, though. He was here because Luke had asked him to be.

“Careful there, kid, you need a light touch.” Han narrowed his eyes at Luke as he closed his fingers around the lock, and it clicked open. “Hey, I think the point of this is that you learn how to get locks open _without_ magic?”

“I know, I _know_.” Luke tilted his head back and groaned. “But this is _frustrating_.”

“Yeah, well, suck it up and learn it like the rest of us did. We all ain’t wizards, you know.”

“Mages.”

“Whatever.” Han took the padlock from Luke’s fumbling hands, twisted the key in it and locked it again. “Go again.”

Luke took it, and thumbed the lockpick between his fingers. “Remind me how to do this again?”

Han sighed, pulling out another of those little copper padlocks he had an abundance of and demonstrating on it.

“Stick the pick in and press down along the shaft of the lock,” he said, demonstrating as he pushed. “There’re little ridges—push against one of them. There’re little pins inside, attached to springs, and if you push on each of them with the pick, you want to find the point where there’s a hinge in the pin. That’s where it folds and unlocks. You push against it each time, find that point, then move onto the next pin. One they’re all out, you’ve unlocked it.”

“Right. How many pins does this lock have?”

“Four. Most doors have eight.”

“Great.” Luke glared down at the lock in his hand, his grip on the pick so tense it was indenting in the skin of his thumb. “This is impossible.”

Han raised an eyebrow. “You want me to show you why it’s not?”

“No, you’ve demonstrated a lot already.” Luke sighed. “I’m never gonna be able to learn this.”

“Hey. You’re a mage, but you’re also a Rebel. You operate in the shadows. You gotta know how to do all our shadowy tricks.”

Luke looked at him.

Han clapped him on the shoulder. “Try again, junior. You’re a smart kid; enough practise, and you’ll get it.

“And one day, this might just come in handy...”


	3. Day 02 [Angstober, Whumptober]: Stolen | Kidnapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vader thinks about his son.

While Luke was asleep that night, Vader entered the nursery. He could hear his son’s slow, even breathing in his bedroom, and resisted the urge to open the door and look at him—just to be sure he was there. Just to be sure he existed.

Just to be sure he wasn’t hallucinating the child he and Padmé had loved and prepared for and made, all those years ago.

It still didn’t quite seem real.

He was here for a reason. He needed to know how Luke had got the window open—to prevent any potential escape attempts, of course. And to see exactly how ingenious his son was; nothing in this room was intended to be used as a lockpick. He’d scoured it when he’d first brought Luke here, to be sure this miracle wouldn’t slip away like a little bird who’d learnt to fly. He’d _made sure_ that Luke couldn’t escape.

But Luke had.

And even then, he hadn’t run.

Vader didn’t know what to make of that—that, or the garden excursion. But he knew it made him smile.

Being in that room hurt. When he glanced around, he… he could still see Padmé seated in an identical copy to that chair there, cradling the knitted dragon in her lap, against her pregnant belly. _I bet this toy with be his favourite,_ she’d teased once.

_I bet on the swords_ , Anakin had countered. _It’s his family symbol, after all._

_Ani,_ she smiled, _never underestimate the allure of_ dragons _._

He turned away before it hurt too much—before the rage that boiled in him could find an outlet and disturb his sleeping son.

His kidnapped son.

How had it happened? Had Obi-Wan dragged Padmé from the ruins of the burning manor and sliced her open to wrench out their screaming child? Had she survived, after all, and fought tooth and nail to keep her son in her arms before the remaining mages had killed her? Had she _trusted_ Obi-Wan with Luke, only for Obi-Wan to let her die and take her son to be raised as a weapon?

Obi-Wan was languishing in the dungeons under the manor and Vader was very suddenly struck with the all-consuming urge to thunder down there, the middle of the night or not, demand answers— he, and Luke, _deserved answers_ —

But that was not what he was here for.

He was here to find his son’s escape method.

It was by pure chance that the wind blew then, shifting the trees in the air and the shadows in the window. Dappled moonlight fell through to land on the shelf, where dead-eyed wooden models sat.

The model of a unicorn, about the length of Vader’s middle finger, had the tip of its horn bent out of shape.

Vader frowned and stepped up to it. Took it in his hand.

Let out a short, quiet laugh.

Clever boy.

His son was such a clever, resourceful, brilliant boy.

And it was a _sin_ that he was only learning that now.

He turned his head to stare at Luke’s closed door, the tapestry of cloud patterns that hung over it—remnants of a childhood that had never happened, that Vader _desperately wished_ had happened, but hadn’t. Because of Obi-Wan.

Because he’d _kidnapped Luke_.

Vader didn’t realise that he’d crushed the unicorn in his grip until he opened his palm to the sight of blood and splinters. He let them fall to the floor.

Obi-Wan had stolen everything from him. He’d always known that. But knowing that he’d stolen _his son_ made it that much more personal.

Luke was back with Vader now. That was the important part. Vader _had him_ , and he would undo all of this damage, and he would _make Obi-Wan pay_.

Even if it didn’t bring any of those past years back… Vader was not ready to sacrifice the future.


	4. Day 02 [Flufftober]: Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their near-disaster of a duel, Vader has brought his new-found son back to the manor. Luke has gotten ill in addition to his injuries, and Vader ruminates on what it means to be a father.

Seventeen years. Robbed of seventeen years of his son’s life. And just last night, he had almost cut the rest of this precious life short. Luke had survived… Survived long enough to be born, survived the debacle at Death Star military base, the plunge into that icy river, and a long and unhappy series of close encounters Vader kept replaying in his mind.

The boy lay shivering under the down-filled cover, his hair damp, his body ravaged by fever. A shimmering form took shape out of thin air and curled up at Luke’s feet in a dazzling display of fur, fangs, and feathers. Vader drew back in his chair and stared at Artoo - his old familiar had not been seen in the castle for many months. Artoo glared back at him with burning eyes and growled.

“ _I have no quarrel with you, beast - stay silent or be gone,_ ” he sent on their bond.

“ _What you have or don’t have doesn’t matter,_ ” the familiar responded, “ _I am here for him._ ”

Vader sighed and chose not to engage him further. No matter how little Vader liked it, the familiar’s presence here was good for the boy. The healers summoned to his son’s sickbed whispered in hushed tones. It had been six hours since Luke had been brought to the manor, and thirty-two since Lord Vader had last slept.

The fire in the room was roaring, but it did little to dispel the chill his son had suffered in that forest, nor the cold dread in his heart. The healers had said that the boy’s condition was stable, that he would survive the illness, and his injuries as well, but these were words, just words, and he had heard many fake promises before.

Luke’s sleep was restless, sweat beading on his forehead, soft whimpers escaping his lips. His right arm was freshly bandaged, his face wiped clean, all minor scrapes and wounds dressed. It was not the wounds Vader worried about. The boy had evidently walked a while in that icy forest to surrender to Veers. When they had first gotten to the manor, the healers had peeled the wet boots and flimsy armor off him, placed him in a tub of hot water, but to what effect, Vader knew not. His son now lay wrapped in soft layers of cotton and silk, still ravaged by the fever.

“Should we remove the pain shield, my lord? It will speed up his healing.”

Vader turned sharply to the healer who had spoken. He did not bother to restrain the deathly undercurrent in his voice.

“Are you in any kind of a hurry, Dreffan?”

The Healer paled and shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

“Not at all, Lord Vader.”

“I do not want to hear this again. You will keep him comfortable at all times.”

“We will do our best, my lord.”

“See to it that you do.”

Another healer came closer and whispered near his ear:

“My lord… you have been awake for many hours. Should you not take some rest? We can watch over him and call for you, if any change should occur.”

“Be silent!” hissed Vader, and passed an angry look around the room. He had returned to the manor without a helmet. He could see the effect his scarred visage produced written plainly on their faces, no matter how hard they tried to disguise it.

“Leave us.” Vader grumbled, “ _You_ will be called for, should there be any change.”

The group picked up their supplies and silently filed out of the room. Vader continued his vigil, trying to keep his mind occupied by piecing together all bits of the Toivo “legends” he had heard over the years. He was desperate for any details from his son’s life. And Padmé… What if Obi-Wan had lied? What if she was alive, too? No, he would not think of it now, he could not bear it.

Nella stopped by sometime later and placed a tea tray next to his chair. He gave the slightest nod of recognition. She gasped as she beheld Artoo, still huddled by the boy's feet. Then she lingered for a while, staring thoughtfully at Luke.

“Should I… bring one of them stuffed toys for the young master? From his room…”

“Leave.”

Nella was one of the few souls in this castle who could shake her head at him the way she did now. When he refused to acknowledge her further, she sighed and headed for the door.

A stuffed toy… Everything in this room was for a child whose early years he’d been robbed from witnessing, from being a part of. Years lost forever in the sands of time. He let the long-buried thoughts overwhelm him: he had failed as a husband, and as a father. He had failed to keep her love, and to protect them both. But here, by the unfathomable will of the Force, he had been given another chance…

Piett interrupted his reverie with a quiet knock at the doorframe.

“Lord Vader… We thought we could bring a cot here for you, sir.”

“No need.”

Piett came closer and placed a folded blanket on the low table next to him.

“Is there anything else we can do, sir? General Veers wants to apologize for…”

“No need.”

Piett looked like he wanted to say more, but upon beholding Vader’s expression, just bowed and turned to leave the room.

“Firmus.”

The seneschal stopped in his tracks and looked back at him.

“Sir?”

“Have Nella bring me a book… From the… from his room.”

“I will, my lord.”

The boy kept tossing and turning, fretfully, his breathing shallow, his pulse too quick. He was moaning words now, some names passing his lips that Vader hushed his own breath to understand. He caught “Leia” several times (that must be the Alderaani princess), and then “Han” (could it be this wanted small-time smuggler, recently in the employ of the Rebellion?), and a “Ben”, whoever that was. Every small detail from his son’s life was like a returned piece from a long-lost treasure. Vader listened, and thanked the Force he never heard the name “Obi-Wan”.

Nella brought the book with an overly satisfied smile on her face that his grim expression wiped off. The book was, like everything else in that memorial of a room, intended for a very young child. Vader dismissed Nella and ran his scarred fingers over the cover. Nursery rhymes from Naboo. The memories rushed through his mind, vivid as if it had only been a week since those days… They had spent countless hours as if caught in a wondrous spell, making plans for the baby room, sharing favorite fairy tales, cherished lullabies. She had loved this ancient lullaby from Tatooine - the only one he remembered from his childhood. He thought it was too somber, but she had learned it, too - foreign words and all, and he had caught her humming it often, hand on her swelling belly, as her gaze drifted over her beloved view of the garden, full of dreams…

The boy stirred and tried to shift on his side. He opened his eyes briefly, unable to focus, and drifted off again. Vader hesitated, then reached out to gently brush his face. He placed the book aside, then cleared his throat, made sure the door behind him was closed… and tried to sing that wretched Tatooine lullaby she had loved so much. He could not bring himself to utter the words, just hummed the melody. To his ears, it sounded off, ugly, unnatural. But the boy… his uneven breathing seemed to slow, and was that a smile touching his lips?

Luke turned to the sound of his voice and whimpered. Vader brought a shaky hand to his forehead - perhaps the cold cloth needed replacing again. His son’s soft whisper cut through the melody and stilled his breath.

“Mama?…”


	5. Day 03 [Flufftober]: "But you said..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke convinces Vader to teach him how to duel.

**“You wanna improve on that inadequate teaching before I do it again?”** _  
[A huge thank you to @Mokulule for contributing the stunning tree line-work!]_

“I am _not_ going to teach you how to duel.”

Luke scowled and kicked the ground. “You promised you’d teach me magic!”

“I will teach you magic. But you have no excellent track record of challenging appropriate opponents, young one.” Vader crossed his arms menacingly, but he seemed to have forgotten that in their sparring matches, he didn’t wear his helmet; the impression he was going for was greatly reduced without it. “I do not want to encourage you running off into danger without adequate teaching.”

“I already did run off into danger without adequate teaching,” Luke shot back. He was aware that he came off as whiny, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “You wanna improve on that inadequate teaching before I do it again?”

He watched his father’s egg-pale face drop into a scowl so deep he could see canyons in the furrows. “So you admit that Obi-Wan’s teachings were inadequate,” he observed, but his fury was spent on: “And you must promise me that you will _never_ do such a foolish thing again. You almost got yourself killed.”

“I promise that I won’t challenge a partner too powerful for me to handle,” Luke said dutifully. Then he added, “So long as you train me, so I can challenge people who _aren’t_ too powerful, and so I can work up to it.”

“I would rather that you did not engage in mage duels whatsoever.”

“Father, this is war.” Luke found himself sobering as he said it. “That’s not going to happen.”

Vader’s beheld him for a moment, blue eyes piercing. Luke tried not to shift under that gaze.

“I concede the point,” he growled. “Perhaps this is a necessity. But only so long as you behave responsibility—I have the right to revoke my teachings at any moment.”

“Yes, sir!”

That almost got a smile out of him.

“Now,” he said. “Show me your battle stance.”


	6. Day 04 [Angstober]: Graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sabé observes what that monster, Vader, has made of her lady's manor.

Sabé stared up at the familiar manor and tried to stop the disgust that curdled in her stomach.

The last time she’d been here, it had been burning.

She’d worked for Padmé for _years_. Always at her side, her right-hand woman, the person she trusted most. The bridesmaid at her wedding, the first to learn about her pregnancy… and the first to hear about her death.

The people of Naboo thought she’d been dead for much longer than she had been, Sabé knew. None of them knew she’d survived to give birth to her son, and a daughter who’d swiftly vanished. No one knew that she’d been the enigmatic _Starflower_ who’d given the Rebellion structure, focus and hope.

No one knew how she’d actually died—or what Sabé’s purpose at this manor was, in conjunction with it.

It was simply that the manor had burned and so, supposedly, had Padmé Amidala. Lady Amidala, her husband, and her unborn son.

Not even Luke knew why his mother had died. He knew that she’d lived, he remembered her, but… She knew that one day she and Obi-Wan would have to tell him. Until then…

This was an _insult_.

The manor’s ruins had been left there for _years_ by the Naboo, as a landmark to a tragedy. No one would touch this graveyard, the final resting place of such a brilliant woman—martyr to the rise of an Empire she would have hated.

_Now_ Vader—who so many people theorised had _killed her_ —swept in to rebuild it?

Now he spat on her ashes, walked over her grave, and rebuilt the place she and her family would have been happy in? Turned it into a place from which to wage war?

Sabé had never hated something more. She wanted to see that manor burn, _again_ —and she wanted to see Lord bloody Vader burn with it.

But not now.

This was for reconnaissance.

This was for Padmé.

She had to get back to the Rebellion alive—for Padmé; for Obi-Wan; for Luke, who’d already lost enough, and did not deserve to lose her too.

So she just glared at it, and went to do her job.

Get in, get out. Get the information. Help the Rebellion.

She tried not to think about the bodies of her friends, buried in ash and earth under her feet.


	7. Day 04 [Flufftober]: Wounded

Anakin managed to sneak out of the grand reception room and made a beeline straight out for the gardens. Why his Lord Father insisted on his presence at these boring political deliberations whenever they were held at their estate was beyond him. None of the other noble families brought their offspring at the young age of sixteen. Good thing the elders had taken a break for some refreshments, which had chanced him with this golden opportunity to vanish. He could not sit through another minute of their droning - he would much rather endure his father’s reproach for his lapse later.

Anakin took a sharp turn into the imposing garden labyrinth and went wherever his instincts led him. Let’s see how they would find him here. He made his way through the maze as he had done countless times before, taking random turns, feeling the pull of the Force. The labyrinth was his Father’s pride, an engineering marvel, with hidden gems of manicured garden spots and even two practice arenas hidden in the design blueprints. It was not meant to be easily navigated for people who did not have magic, his Father had told him.

Today, the magic pulled on him in that very particular way, usually a predictor of something significant about to unfold. Or it could just be Chef making his favorite dessert - he never knew. After another sharp turn, Anakin found himself out of the maze and into the central arena. He took the familiar gravel path, shaded by two rows of tall plumerias, but before he reached the open arena, he felt danger looming from the side. Something collapsed behind the nearest plumeria bush, and one of the branches nicked his cheek, followed by a crashing archery practice target. He barely managed to duck out of the way, hand and knee hitting the gravel, and gasped in pain. There was a quarrel embedded in the broken target at his feet.

Behind the unfortunate plumeria, someone was trying to make their way to him. Undoubtedly, the person who shot the crossbow.

“Are you mad?!” He yelled, and jumped up, trying to get the dust and gravel off his hand and sleeve.

“Are you alright?” The voice behind the plumerias asked, and Anakin started. A melodic voice, and not one he recognized. “Please accept my apologies, the target simply gave in! And moreover, I did not expect anyone to venture in here! How did you even manage it alone?”

“I live here!” Anakin growled, “And the target wouldn’t ‘just break’ if you hadn’t shot it with a crossbow! It is meant for archery, it can’t withstand… Where did you even get a crossbow?”

“I like to carry my crossbow with me, thank you.”

He opened his mouth to respond but dropped the incoming assault when the mysterious stranger finally stepped out of the bushes, and beheld him with a half-regal, half-apologetic expression. His heart skipped. The soft oval of her face. The chestnut curls, and these eyes… Could it be?…

He was fairly certain his cheeks changed color, but he straightened up and tried to meet her gaze with poise.

“You are injured!” She exclaimed, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and handed it to him awkwardly. “I am really sorry… Your face…”

He took it, wiped a trail of blood from his cheek, and carefully examined her.

“It is you…” He whispered, his eyes wide.

“Yes, still me here,” she replied archly. “But I don’t think we have met. Who might you be?”

She suddenly took the time to covertly look him up and down, her gaze taking in his stiff posture, and the black and purple Chimera crest lavishly embroidered on his doublet. “Oh, let me guess. A proud scion of House Palpatine.”

He grinned.

“One you just tried to shoot with a crossbow?”

“It was an accident.”

“Convenient. For the heiress of House Naberrie.”

She arched an eyebrow — an expression he remembered too well.

“Perhaps you are trying to imply that I did it on purpose?”

“Perhaps. But you should allow me to teach you proper archery first, to increase your chances of success.”

“Only after you allow me to teach you some manners!”

He bowed.

“Forgive me, my lady! Are you afraid of a little competition?”

“Listen… What is your name again?”

“You really don’t remember me?”

“Am I supposed to?”

Anakin sighed.

“It is probably for the best.”

She suddenly realized that the Naberrie crest was nowhere to be found on the simple clothing she’d chosen for this waste of a day. She took a good, long look at him. A youth of a tall frame, slim build, and a set of broad shoulders he had yet to fully grow into, a sheepish smile, not one lock out of place in his severe hairstyle, and blue eyes hiding a storm. Suddenly, that gaze seemed very familiar.

“Who are you? How are you related to the Palpatines?”

He didn’t answer, just stared at her with these bright blue eyes. She gasped in recognition, at last.

“Anakin?!”

His grin widened, and he looked away.

“It can’t be! How long has it been? You… you have certainly grown!”

“Seven years. And four months. But you… you look even more beautiful than I dared remember you.”

He’d said the wrong thing. He knew it. She pulled away, then chuckled, and kept staring at him with unbelieving eyes. It had been a debacle, that famous quarterly horse obstacle race. He was the youngest person to ever win it, at the age of nine. His father had let him do it, of course. He’d trusted Anakin to pull it off. It had brought great honor to their house, but then Anakin had crowned the wrong person as queen of Spring. A girl in a rich dark dress sprinkled with pearly starflowers, who had stopped by to talk to him, before he’d ventured out on the track - a curious girl who’d said she just wanted him to be careful. She had given him her name and a token, too - like ladies and lords are supposed to give to their chosen champions. Then she had noticed one of his father’s men carrying the Palpatine banner and suddenly fled.

She was the kindest, most beautiful girl he had ever met - not that he had met that many. And she had cheered for him on the track later, too. So, he’d chosen to crown Padmé Summer Queen after his victory had made him Summer King, and in one happy moment, exclaimed that one day he would marry her for real, to the unbridled nervous laughter of everyone within earshot, the frozen expressions on her parents’ faces, his father’s complete shock, and his own utter embarrassment to follow. The whole affair had been hushed up before the banquet, his father had said, forbidding him from speaking to her any further at the event. But Anakin still remembered how Padmé had worn her victory crown late into the night.

“Well… Anakin of house Palpatine…” the sound of his name on her lips suddenly made him giddy.

“How about a game,” she continued, “A match of wills, of sorts. We shall shoot some arrows, and whoever wins, gets to teach the other person one or two things. For example, I will teach you about manners, and crossbows.”

“Why am I the one who needs to be taught manners? You almost shot me! But fine… I will just teach you how to shoot. With a bow,” he felt the need to clarify. He needed to stop talking.

“Oh, and the winner gets to ask seven questions about the past seven years,” Padmé added with a grin. “Help me straighten this up?”

He rushed and turned the fallen target over. She had hit it dead-center with her quarrel. Anakin sighed and carried the target over by himself. This match would be more interesting than he’d anticipated. He vowed he would not use his magic, to keep things fair. Did she have magic? It was too personal of a question to ask. But if he won this round, perhaps he could bring it up…

He placed the target in the arena, made sure it was securely propped up, then headed to the stock shed to get a heavier target fit for her Force-forsaken crossbow.

When he was done setting up, she pulled out another handkerchief and motioned to his face.

“Will you let me?… You didn’t get all the blood.”

Anakin nodded, and she pressed the soft silk gently to his cheek. He flinched, then stilled beneath her hand.

“You were lucky. I could have hit you much worse with that target.”

His smiling eyes held sparks to ignite a firestorm.

“I… I _am_ very lucky.”


	8. Day 05 [Whumptober]: "Where do you think you are going?"

Luke had made a good plan. A solid plan. It had taken weeks of preparation, but everything was proceeding on point, and if they could just round this corner, he would be able to get Obi-Wan out through a window facing an overgrown side of the castle grounds, where they would have some cover until his old teacher was far away from the walls. Luke had spent many long hours unbarring this shuttered window secretly over the last few nights. Obi-Wan paused before climbing out, face tired and worn, and the boy looked away, tears streaking down his face.

“Luke… You should go back now, you have done more than enough.”

“No. I will see you out of the citadel walls first.”

Obi-Wan shook his head. He looked like he had aged fifteen years in the fifteen weeks he’d been held captive in this castle. He tried again:

“Luke, you really need to…”

“We are wasting time, Ben. Start climbing. I will be right behind you. Let’s not let this chance go to waste.”

Luke had picked the day carefully: his father was away, on his monthly summons at the Emperor’s palace. He should not be back until the day after tomorrow. With some luck, the news of Ben’s escape wouldn’t even reach him before he returned.

Luke pulled out a ladder he had stashed away in the room’s storage closet and extended it carefully through the window until it touched the ground outside. He picked up the large backpack of supplies and provisions he had prepared for Obi-Wan, and motioned to him:

“After you.”

Obi-Wan sighed.

“Oh, but before that,” Luke added, “I thought you would be happy to get this back.” The boy pulled out a dagger wrapped tightly in a woolen sack - to prevent the blade’s glow from attracting attention. Obi-Wan gasped.

“Oh, Luke! I never thought I would see this again…”

He took his kyberblade with a shaky hand, then tied it to his belt, and pulled in the boy for a tight hug. “Dear boy… you should come with me, truly. I am afraid of what he would do, should he ever find out…”

Luke just hugged him back, and whispered: “I will be fine, I promise.”

Obi-Wan was filled with dread, but there was nothing more to discuss. Luke had remained intransigent about remaining with Vader. He believed, like his mother, that there was still good in him. A belief which hadn’t done her any good - that was for sure.

The old man stepped through the window and climbed down the ladder. When he was safely down, Luke looked around to make sure they weren’t noticed and followed him. He skipped the last few steps with a jump and found himself next to a very still Obi-Wan. Something was wrong.

“Where do you think you are going?”

The familiar deep voice chilled his heart. _Oh no_ , Luke’s only thought bounced around his panicked mind, _oh no…_ He stepped in front of Obi-Wan, as if he could hide him. His father’s figure had never loomed so tall, and his red kyberblade glowed in his fist like an angry fire-spirit.

“He wasn’t planning on coming with me, Anakin! You must know. I tried to persuade him, but he wouldn’t listen.”

His father’s eyes shone with that dangerous glow Obi-Wan had explained came with the use of dark magic.

“Silence, old man!”

“I am just helping Obi-Wan escape, Father,” Luke chimed in. The truth was probably his best option. “He was getting ill in that cell. He needs care.”

“Care?!” His father spat out and pointed a gloved finger at Luke’s face. “Step away from him this instant.”

Obi-Wan sensed Vader’s temper rising, and moved away from Luke himself. Vader continued pointing a finger at his son, while the fisted hand with the kyberblade visibly shook. “Do not move. Do not speak. I will deal with you later.”

“Anakin,…” Obi-Wan tried again.

“And you… “ Vader turned on him. His voice was deathly quiet, each word perfectly annunciated. “No more words, Obi-Wan. This is the time, this is the final hour - just you and I, before the will of the Force - “ he pulled his blade up in the traditional motion to issue a challenge and set the duel magicks in motion.

“Oh, do simmer down, Anakin!” Obi-Wan exclaimed, “You know the spell won’t even take!”

Vader flinched as if struck by an invisible blow. Luke sensed a shift in the Force around them and used the opening to step in between the two mages once more. He did not understand what had just transpired, but his father looked positively dejected, and his rage seemed to have dissipated, together with the yellow glow from his eyes.

“Would it be so bad to give him a warm blanket, Father? It is very cold in that cell…”

Lord Vader stood like a planted monolith for half a minute, and everyone kept their silence.

“Or... Can we just let him go?”

Vader found his words, at last.

“Absolutely not.”

“But a blanket, at least?”

The dark lord took a shaky breath. Luke came closer and pulled down his hand, still gripping the kyberblade as if ready to strike. Then, the boy suddenly wrapped his hands around him in a swift hug.

Vader sheathed his blade and held him back tightly, glaring at Obi-Wan with spent menace. Luke had not planned to run from him. This is what mattered. Everything else… was irrelevant.

“We will have words tomorrow, young one,” he spoke quietly to his son, “but in the meantime… you can give the old man everything you’ve stashed for him in that backpack.“

Luke’s eyes lit up when he smiled up at him, and somehow, giving luxuries to his worst enemy was absolutely worth this moment.

“I will have that back, _now_ ,” he pointed a finger at Kenobi’s kyberblade. Obi-Wan sighed. He untied the blade and handed it to Vader.

“I hope you are happy.”

“I am slightly happier. Get back to your cell.”

“But must he go back there, Father? Can’t you find him a better room, in the upper levels? One with a proper fire?”

Lord Vader looked up to the starry skies. He had never felt more tired.


	9. Day 05 [Flufftober]: Sparkle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke begins the task of revamping his father's wardrobe, as promised.
> 
> A belated post of Day 5, since I just realised I didn't post it here in October!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We were trying to figure out why there were only 40 chapters when we'd written 41 ficlets between us; I realised that I forgot to post this one to AO3 as well as tumblr on the 5th October. So I'm posting it in the correct place now, especially because it's important to understanding Day 9/Chapter 14 XD

Luke hadn’t picked up a needle in the weeks since he’d arrived at his father’s manor, but that did not mean he was rusty. The moment his father’s assistant—Piett?—had shown him to where the seamstresses of the manor worked, he’d ignored all the stares they were directing at him, grasped one of his father’s cape in his hands and sat down at one of the works stations. He arranged the fabric so it flared out over the table in front of him, selected a needle from the pot, and went to fetch a spool of thread.

He could hear whispering. He could tell Piett was giving them all pointed looks. He just gave the man an amused one, and he stopped.

Luke glanced over the spools already out on the table—white, blue, green, brown, black—and quietly cleared his throat. All the women in the room, who were now sitting in awkward silence in lieu of returning to the chatter he’d walked in on, snapped their heads up to look at him.

He made a vague, slightly self-deprecating gesture with his hand. “I don’t mean to interrupt any of your work, but— do you have any gold thread? Embroidery thread?”

One woman—a plump lady with bony fingers and bushy eyebrows, stood from her seat and came over to open one of the drawers for him. “We don’t have gold thread,” she said in an accent similar to Luke’s, to Luke’s Aunt Beru’s; he smiled to hear it.

“I can make do with yellow if you have it,” he said, consciously slipping back into his usual accent—he hadn’t realised how much he was starting to pick up Vader’s pronunciations, his mother’s pronunciations, again, until he slipped back.

The woman gave him a sharp look. “Sure, we have it.” She pulled out a spool and tossed it to him; he caught it neatly, and grinned.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

He returned to his seat, took the needle in his fingers, and pressed the tip of the thread between his thumb and forefinger. Then he muttered something.

He glanced up at Piett, who’d fixed him with a concerned look. “I’ll be fine,” he said, “you don’t need to hover.”

Piett did not look impressed. “Why are you performing magic?”

All the quiet conversation that had been going between the women stopped so they could stare at him again.

He held up the yellow thread. “I needed gold,” he shrugged. Sure enough, it glinted that colour in the light.

A muscle twitched in Piett’s jaw.

“I may be brightening up my father’s wardrobe, but I’m not going to go with bright yellow and black,” Luke teased. “I don’t want him to look like a bumblebee.” He paused. “Yet.”

Piett looked exhausted.


	10. Day 06 [Angstober]: Nightmares Come Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to Chapter 4: Luke wakes up to hear a lullaby.

Luke woke to a soft bed, a cold compress on his forehead, and the overwhelming feeling of dread.

He knew that presence next to him.

Artoo had been here, he knew distantly, he could sense his lingering presence and warmth at his feet—but that wasn’t what he was focusing on.

His magic rushed toward him the moment he regained consciousness and Luke revelled in it for a moment, feeling his wounds soothe faster, except… there was something already soothing them. Some _one_ already at his side, passing over him with gentle brushes of magic designed to comfort, to heal, to help, and…

And…

He knew that presence.

The snow. The sword. The standoff.

_Ben._

_Father._

_No._

He’d thought that was a nightmare.

“Luke?” Vader leaned over him, and Luke tried not to flinch, tried to keep his eyes shut. _I’m not awake, I’m not awake, I’m not awake—_

Vader knew his name.

He’d— he’d asked him, in the snow, and Luke had trembled and refused to give it, but _now he knew it._

_How?_

_Ben…_

Vader sat back and huffed to himself, sounding disappointed. “You are so powerful that your magic protects and ebbs and flows around you even on the verge of unconsciousness,” he observed. Luke would never have the capacity to analyse the layers that were in his voice there—certainly not now, half-asleep and wishing he was totally.

He’d thought that duel was a nightmare.

If he slept, he could at least pretend it was still just a nightmare.

The cold compress was removed from his forehead. Luke moaned, on instinct, eyes fluttering open slightly—and Vader quickly replaced it, dampened from a bowl next to the bed.

“Hush, little one,” Vader tried to soothe. His rasping voice did nothing of the sort. Luke was tense, ready to bolt, ready to _cry_ —

Vader started humming.

And Luke realised: no wonder he had been dreaming of his mother again.

No wonder he’d woken with a lullaby on the tip of his tongue.

He wanted to cry when he heard that song again—the one Vader had probably been humming to him as he slept—the one that his mother used to sing, when they lived in Tatooine, that Aunt Beru had known but rarely sung to him after Padmé had disappeared.

He wanted to cry.

His father was a monster. His father was a nightmare made flesh.

His father _was_ the man his mother had loved—had learnt this lullaby from.

Tears leaked from under Luke’s eyelids, staining the side of his cheek and the pillow with salt. Monster or not, Vader singing that lullaby… got through to him, in a way nothing Ben or Han or Leia had ever managed to comfort him. He hated it.

And he hated that when he fell asleep to the sound of it, he had no nightmares to blame Vader’s presence on.


	11. Day 07 [Angstober]: Skeleton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke finds something in the garden that he _did not_ want to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this one for semi-graphic description of an old bone, particularly the one of someone we know and love.

Luke was digging in the garden when he found it. He spent so much time there that the old gardener, Binks, had given him a shovel and started teaching him to finer points of maintaining a place like that, which Luke had taken to enthusiastically. He occasionally wondered if his father was angry or annoyed that the boy he was trying so hard to teach to be noble preferred to scrabble around in the dirt, but perhaps he had a soft spot for those gardens.

Or perhaps, he thought to himself with a smile as he dug into the hillside, he just liked seeing him happy.

There were planting more hydrangeas—at least, Luke was pretty sure. There was currently only one hydrangea path along the pond; in his parents’ time, there’d been two, mirroring one another, and Binks was doing his best to reintroduce the second. So Luke had dressed himself in his rough clothes—the ones already so stained they would never be totally clean, torn and ripped so that he could roll his sleeves up to his elbows in the late afternoon sun—and grabbed a shovel. He’d been digging along this bank right next to the manor for hours, working up a sweat, clearing the patch so the more experienced gardeners could come in and plant it.

That was when he saw a flash of white.

He paused. Put down his big shovel, and picked up a smaller one, and brushed at it more carefully. Removing the dirt.

He shouted and dropped it.

It was a _bone_.

_Several of them_.

Luke had seen death. He’d fought in a war. He’d suffered and nearly died and _watched people die_ , with horrific injury after horrific injury. He knew what the bones in someone’s arm looked like.

Cleanly severed, these had— He wanted to retch, looking at them, yellow with years of age, caked in dried blood and dirt, old—he looked away— _tissue_ staining it. The bones in the hand were just a collection of white things; he left them in the dirt.

Someone’s _arm_ had been cut off.

“Luke?” Binks came over— only for someone to beat him there.

“Luke!?” Vader was at Luke’s side in an instant; Luke hadn’t even known he was nearby, but he supposed that this close to the house Vader could’ve heard his shout from his study. “What’s wrong—”

Luke turned away from the bone and grabbed Vader’s arm, pressing his cheek against his shoulder. “There’s someone’s _arm_ there,” he said. He didn’t feel well.

His father, gently, still letting Luke shield his eyes, knelt down to examine what he’d found. Whatever it was made him “Hm” in surprise, glancing around, as if mentally calculating the area and the layout of the manor.

“That’s my arm,” he said matter-of-factly.

Luke let go of him and backed away. “ _What!?_ ”

Vader poked the bone, held his right arm—the arm Luke had been clinging to—up to compare the lengths, and glanced around the area again. “Yes. In all likelihood, this was the south wing of the manor where Obi-Wan cut off my arm in our duel—the south wing was so badly damaged in the fire that I never bothered rebuilding it. This is around the place I expected it to have fallen.”

Luke squawked. “But— your arm there—"

Vader tilted his head, viewing him through the lenses of that horrible helmet, and tugged off his glove—something, Luke realised with alarm, he’d never actually seen him do before. Then rolled up his sleeve.

Luke _stared_ at the complex contraption of metal rods and plates that formed the rough shape of a hand, magic sparking blue each time Vader wriggled his fingers stiffly and slowly, opening and closely his fist. Luke was enthralled.

“That’s…” Interesting? Terrifying? He _still_ hated the bone he’d found— _he’d found his father’s severed arm, oh Warrior,_ what _had happened_ —but that… That hand… “How does it work!? What spell is that?”

Binks quietly picked up Luke’s shovel and got back to work. Vader took Luke’s shoulder and steered him away.

“Come along,” he said. “I’ll show you some of my blueprints for it when building.”

Luke wasn’t sure if Vader was trying to distract from the shocking experience of digging up an arm, or just wanted his son’s undivided, admiring attention again.

Either way, he supposed, he appreciated it.


	12. Day 08 [Flufftober]: Unwavering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vader has agreed to teach Luke how to conduct a mage duel--but he won't do it before he makes some things perfectly clear.

Luke tried to recall everything Ben had taught him about mage duels and came up short.

The look his father gave him told him that was exactly what he’d expected. Still, Luke racked his brain—he _knew_ Ben had gone over it at one point!—even as the birds chirped in the trees above and sweat clung to his back and the sand of the practise arena they were standing in shifted under his feet.

He had nothing.

His father gave him an unimpressed stare.

“The duel you challenged me to,” he informed him drolly, “spoke wonders about your education in these matters.”

Luke scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. “Go on then,” he said belligerently. “Explain it to me all from scratch. What are the key moves you need to see the duel in motion, again?” Luke gestured on the hilt of the short practise dagger Vader lent him for these sessions: palm to the hilt, other hand wrapped around it.

“Other way around.”

Luke quickly switched hands. “That way round worked during the duel.”

“Yes. The Force must have decided to favour you there, for some reason—it can have a strange sense of humour.”

“Are you saying it was humouring me as a _joke_?” Luke’s offence was clear in his voice; he saw his father smile.

“Yes,” he replied. “I am.” Then his voice grew more solemn. “But we are not going to start there. Put away your weapon. We are starting with the basics.”

“I thought these were the basics?”

“A mage duel,” Vader said gravely, “is an absolute last resort. They are known to leave once wealthy villages as nothing more than _craters_.”

Luke swallowed. This was a lecture, he realised—not in the scolding sense, but the educational sense.

“There is a spell to initiate it, but there is so much more to it than simply casting a spell. It is _the last resort_. When all diplomacy has failed, when there is no other way to settle an issue… you declare to your adversary, and to the world at large, _absolutely unwavering_ , that you believe they have wronged you. _Grievously_. That you believe you have the right to fight them, potentially kill them, for this offence. It is the gravest of accusations, and if you fail to follow through on it, it carries the gravest of punishments.”

Luke swallowed again.

“You make your challenge, and the Force is your judge. We know nothing about its will, or how it works, or how it decides—but if it decides that your cause is indeed worthy, that your opponent does indeed deserve to die, then it will grant your wish. The duel magics will be locked in place. Your opponent will have to fight you—they have no choice about it. If they refuse, they will have conceded and confessed to their crimes before the Force, and the toll they must pay you is steep.”

Luke nodded. “I understand.”

And then he dared to ask— “What would have happened if you’d refused my duel?”

Vader stared at him for a moment. Anger and a reluctant amusement tugged at the corner of his lips. “A runt of a half-trained mage in soaked boats?” he asked. “I would not have.”

“But if you _had_. And neither of us died in that battle! Surely the Force didn’t want me to kill you when it allowed me to challenge you?” He squinted. “Unless the magic didn’t set in place at all and you just fought me for the hell of it.”

“Oh, it set in place. I assumed it was because we had chased each other for so long, the Force was finally ending it with one showdown. But the twin blades of magic and destiny have always worked in strange ways.” He fixed Luke with a look. “We were meant to find each other. That was the purpose of that duel.”

Luke swallowed. “And… the other night, when you challenged Ben…”

“The magic did not take. The Force rejected me.”

“It decided Ben hadn’t done anything wrong?”

Vader ground out, “Yes.”

Luke tried not to smile. He knew his father wouldn’t appreciate it.

“Alright. I understand.” He kicked, scuffing his boot against the sand of the training ring. “Now, can we—”

“Not until I am sure,” Vader said, “that you are _certain_ you understand me.”

Luke couldn’t look away; Vader’s gaze bore into his.

“If you engage in a mage duel, everything is up to the Spinner’s design. You may lose some of your magic. You may gain some of your adversary’s magic. You may live, you may die, you may suffer a horrible, eternal curse, and you may even walk away from that duel as friends.”

“That happens?”

“It is rare. Particularly considering the extreme nature of the wrongdoing it takes to justify a duel. But it has been known to happen. Duels are, above all else, _unpredictable_. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Tell me,” Vader pulled out a long sword and rested the tip against the ground, gripping its hilt and surveying him sternly, “that you will _only use this as a last resort_.”

“I will only use this as a last resort.”

“Tell me that you know your life is worth more than petty heroics, or revenge, or even justice,” Vader said softly. “And that I could not bear to lose you.”

Luke promised, “I know, Father.” Then he added, “Please know that the feeling is mutual.”

Vader said nothing.

Instead, he just flipped the sword in his hand, and spread his fingers to show the grip.

“Adjust your hand like so,” he began, and demonstrated a grip for him. “This is how you cast the spell…”


	13. Day 06 [Flufftober]: Quicksilver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I don't know what a snippet means, here are ~3500 words 😁
> 
> A quick note to help understand a bit of what is going on in this chapter: in this AU, Galactia is a continent. The main political formation on it is a union of city-states. Theed is the city-state of the Naberries, while Spinnaker is the city-state of the Palpatines. There are many others (Alderaan included), which will come later in the story. The administration of this union is located in a neutral city called (*gasp*) Coruscant. 
> 
> There is a formal political figure heading the entire union, and this position is transferred between city-state families every x number of years. The next transfer is just about to take place, from House Naberrie to House Palpatine.

Anakin took any opportunity for cover in the darkness as he crossed the open section of the garden and walked up to the pavilion. His stomach was tied in knots. He inhaled a lungful of the crisp autumn air, then ran up, taking several steps at a time. The rotunda appeared deserted, with just a scattering of fallen red leaves stirring on the ground. He looked up with a sigh, noting an elaborate carving of Spinna — the Weaver of Destiny and fabled founder of House Palpatine, staring at him with impassive eyes from the ceiling. Spinner of his own fate indeed… 

He exhaled slowly, placed both hands on the banister, and hung his head. A moving shadow caught the edge of his peripheral visions, and he spun around just in time to see her stepping out from behind a column with a coy smile. His heart skipped a beat.

“Anakin!” She exclaimed first, “I had very little hope to find you here!”

“Padmé...“ He straightened up, suddenly at a loss about what to do with his hands. “How could I not come? I knew that you would be in Spinnaker for the Transfer of Power proceedings. I had to check our spot.”

She looked at him with a spark in her eyes.

“Ah, yes. I heard your Lord Father tried to give my Lady Grandmother a hard time today.”

Anakin sighed.

“He often does. Give a hard time to people, that is. She shouldn’t take it personally.”

“I would worry more about him than her.”

“Let’s just have them worry about each other! I’ve missed you, Padmé.”

She smiled softly at him, and he reveled in the warmth of her gaze. 

“Oh, I’ve missed you too,” she blushed. “But perhaps there is a way for us to exchange messages more swiftly from now on.”

He took a step closer, halted, then pulled the hands he was about to extend for an embrace behind his back instead. It was late at night, but this was a public garden. In his own family’s capital city. Even if he wore simple clothes and hid his face behind a hood, this was neither the time nor the place for mistakes.

She sighed, their eyes locked, and he leaned in way closer than socially appropriate for two acquaintances in a public garden.

“We could elope, you know? I can commandeer a ship. Then, we would sail East to the unknown territories and become pirates.”

She tried to hush her laughter.

“Very tempting! I will think your idea over. It will be great to see our families united for a change - to defend Galactia from our fearsome pirate fleet.”

Anakin chuckled, then settled a steady gaze on her, and spoke in a low voice.

“I brought you something.” 

He pulled a small gilded box from a pocket. She lifted it carefully from the palm of his hand, her eyes tracing the ornate designs with awe.

“What is it, Anakin?”

“Just open it.”

Padmé tilted her head, then carefully pulled the lid open. A wondrous shape of mist and golden glitter materialized and took flight before their eyes, like a glowing sun-bird. Padmé gasped and pulled both hands over her mouth. The creature circled around the pavilion as if to stretch its wings, then perched itself on Anakin’s extended arm.

“My goodness! I was growing restless in that box - my feathers were turning stiff! But allow me to introduce myself! I am Threepio, a newborn familiar, designed for navigating all city-state diplomatic protocols, matters of etiquette, and most importantly, providing swift message deliveries!”

Padmé appeared lost for words. Anakin leaned over and whispered in her ear:

“His true name is Goldspin.”

“And you — you must be the esteemed Lady Naberrie, my new mistress! My maker has told me all about you, and oh, I am so very pleased to meet you, and pledge myself to your service!”

The shimmering bird made an exaggerated bow. Its glowing feathers cast golden sparks in the night.

“I am happy to meet you too, Threepio!” Padmé managed, at last. She gave the familiar a gentle smile, and it visibly blushed, his golden cheeks turning a dark shade of copper.

“Anakin, how did you manage?… He is wonderful!”

It was Anakin’s turn to blush.

“I just hoped he would bring you some joy.”

“This is very advanced magic, Anakin! Obi-Wan told me that only the most powerful, experienced mages can bring forth a familiar… And you haven’t even started your formal training!”

Anakin grinned and raised an eyebrow.

“The Mage Council are a strange bunch indeed. I found nothing difficult about the task.”

Padmé’s eyes lingered on Threepio, who was taking the time to preen his glowing feathers. Evidently, Anakin had designed him more for a dramatic effect than for stealth.

“You need to speak his true name, to bind his magic to you,” Anakin reminded her.

She nodded, then leaned close, and her hand found Anakin’s under his cloak. Their fingers entwined.

“Thank you…” she whispered, “He is a priceless gift, and I will cherish him.” 

Anakin loomed over her, and all caution be damned, brushed lips over her cheek. They pulled away instantly, looking everywhere around but at each other. When he finally gathered his senses, he extended his arm, with Threepio still perched on it.

“Here…”

Padmé lifted an arm, and the familiar hopped over. He weighed nothing, and she could see, but not feel, his golden claws on her sleeve.

“Goldspin,” she whispered, and a gleaming ribbon of mist appeared to tie them together, then dissipate.

“It worked!” Anakin exclaimed, half with glee, half with surprise. “No glitches!”

Padmé gently ran a hand over the familiar’s head, and it crooned.

“Speaking of… I’ve been meaning to ask you, Anakin. How has Lord Palpatine evaded the Mage Council for so long? Shouldn’t you be in Corusca by now, studying?”

Anakin scoffed.

“My father has his ways. Besides, I doubt that there is much that they can teach me.”

She looked at him suspiciously.

“You seem to have received some training already. But there are laws in our land for a reason, Anakin.”

He sighed. 

“I have very little desire to go to Corusca, Padmé, just for some dogmatic ascetics to teach me their narrow views on magic. Besides, it is much further away from Theed than Spinnaker.”

Padmé paused.

“Did your Lord Father not inform you? He specifically requested that I be appointed as the new Senator from Theed. I will move to Coruscant a week after the Transition of Power is complete.”

Anakin froze.

“That’s… that’s great,” he managed, but his face spoke otherwise. “Congratulations.”

She sighed.

“This is why I brought a gift for you too,” she lifted her hand. A tarnished silver amulet lay in her palm. “It’s been in our family for generations. I think… it will suit you well.”

Anakin gave her a forlorn look, still preoccupied with the news.

“Thank you…” He took the locket from her palm, his fingers caressing hers. He stared at it, trying to guess its purpose. He wildly hoped that it held two lithographs of them, side by side, but he didn’t want to be disappointed, so he asked: “What is it?”

“Quicksilver,” she smiled. “Go ahead, open it.”

He felt a jolt down his spine and turned around sharply. A low snap broke the silence, then a dart whizzed through the air and pierced his neck. He pushed Padmé back behind him, but this was all he managed before he collapsed to his knees, and his body stiffened through the sharp pangs of a paralyzing agent

“Anakin!” Padmé screamed and rushed to help him.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and non-binary beings!” Someone spoke in a jumble of foreign accents. “Seize them.”

Several dark figures invaded the pavilion. Padmé pulled out her crossbow and fired. The closest of the attackers fell, but the others overwhelmed her, one of them placing a gloved hand over her mouth. Threepio sputtered aimlessly about, shrieked “Oh my!”, and disappeared into the night.

Anakin stared in horror, unable to move.

Their leader, the man who had spoken earlier, stepped forward. He wore a crumpled naval, military issue hat which Padmé believed had gone out of style in the past century, and an atrocious ensemble of mismatched clothing. From underneath the hat protruded a tangled mess of beaded braids. His face was like worn leather, his eyes — two black beads, and his smile held a treasure trove for any aspiring dentist. 

“Ah - no, no, no! I would advise against that, dearie. And what a nice crossbow this is, splendid — thank you! And you,“ he crouched down to face Anakin — still frozen on his knees. The man lifted his chin with a crooked finger. “It’s a very special dart you got there in your neck, lad. We procured it all the way from them witch-hunters of Tatooine. It slowly releases a neurotoxin especially developed for… how do you call them here in Galactia again? A-ha! Mages.”

Anakin’s eyes visibly darkened. The pirate — for what else could he be? — examined his face carefully with searching eyes. He let go of Anakin’s chin and turned back to his crew with glee:

“Mother of Stars, it is him! It will be pay-day, soon, maties! Restrain him carefully. Don’t forget he is dangerous, dart or no dart.”

Then, he swayed his way forward, and his look trailed up and down Padmé.

“My oh my, aren’t you two just so beautiful together! Who might you be, my dear? I will ask my crewmate here to remove his hand from your mouth, but should you scream, your lover-boy shall pay the price. Nod if you understand.”

Padmé frowned but nodded, and the brute released her.

“So… your name, dearie?”

She tried to come up with something fast, but Threepio chose this moment to fly back into the rotunda.

“Oh Mistress Padmé, what shall we do! There is no help in sight!”

The pirate stared at the familiar with large, greedy eyes, then turned back to Padmé.

“Call him back, or…” he looked at Anakin meaningfully, “you know what’s going to happen.”

“Unghh,” said Anakin.

Padmé opened the box and beckoned Threepio over. He dissolved in a pillar of sparks. The pirate snagged the box out of her hands.

“Oh, but what is this, my dear? Such a lovely box! I’ve always wanted a box just like this one, I am certain of it!”

“The familiar won’t work for you, pirate!”

“That we shall see.”

He turned to his crew with a grin.

“What a treasure trove here tonight, boys and girls! And you too, my dear,” he spoke kindly to one of his mates who was busy untangling some rope.

His eyes settled thoughtfully at Padmé again.

“Padmé?… Such a rare name, a beautiful name…“ He tapped a finger to his chin, then pulled out a creased booklet out of his wide belt and leafed through it. After an obvious “a-ha” moment, he announced to his crew with shining eyes:

“Could it be, fellows? Are we so lucky that we have caught not only the Palpatine heir, but the Naberrie heiress tonight?”

“You wish,” muttered Padmé with a stony face.

The pirates erupted in suppressed cheers. Anakin managed a groan.

“My mamma always said,” their leader continued, “one hostage is good, but two - well that’s just good business!”

“I don’t know what you are talking about!” Padmé raised her chin at him. “I am just a simple architect trying to sketch the designs of this rotunda for my noble patron in Theed. She wishes for a replica in her garden — you can look at the drawing book in my bag. And this fellow is a bodyguard traveling with me, nothing more.”

The pirate seemed worried for a split second.

“We followed him here all the way from the Palpatines’ estate, dearie.”

After another tense moment, he added:

“Someone please tell me the lordling brought his kyberblade.”

He had. Padmé sighed.

With a beaming grin and another treasure added to his trove of the night, the pirate examined her with newfound respect. 

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. The gall!… Now, I want to clarify something, children,” he seemed to love the sound of his own voice. “This is strictly business. We are only after the money, and no-one wants to make a mess by maiming you permanently. You even get two meals a day, all included in the ransom price, of course!”

He crouched down at Anakin’s level again and added:

“Don’t worry - your families will pay soon, like all noble families do, and you two can return to sneaking around behind their backs. Naturally, I will have to charge you extra to keep your secret.”

Anakin’s glare held murder. The pirate chuckled smugly, then stood up and turned to Padmé.

“Are you quite certain you want to entangle yourself with this one, my dear? He’s got the angelic face, no doubt about it, but his father is a crusty old man who has given us endless trouble on the seas - and I must add, he knows no mercy. I like your spunk, so I wish to make a recommendation if you will: just last month, we kidnapped the Clovis heir — Rush — have you heard of him? He behaved the entire time and even taught us some math. We used it in accounting to extort his family for a higher ransom. Rush did it in exchange for a cell with a view. A splendid, most practical young fellow, who knows how to take care of himself.”

“Arghh!” Anakin quipped, now fully tied up. The bulkiest pirate picked him up like a bundle and trussed him on his back.

“I just hope your beau here does nothing stupid,” the pirate leader frowned.

“You don’t have to worry about him,” Padmé spoke, looking at Anakin intensely. “His mind is like quicksilver.” 

She hoped Anakin got the hint, then turned back to the kidnapping mastermind.

“And what is your name, pirate?” 

“Just walk calmly, my dear. You see that carriage over there? Let’s move. And my name — I am the illustrious Captain Hondo Ohnaka, I thought it was obvious — but I wouldn’t say that I am at your service.”

The pirates formed a tight group around Padmé, the man carrying Anakin, and another carrying their fallen comrade. In less than a minute, the hostages got swept into the carriage, and it disappeared into the night.

* * *

Padmé stared at Anakin, who had closed his eyes, and occasionally gritted his teeth. Sweat had beaded on his temples. He didn’t appear in pain, but he was still under the invisible strain that held him in check. She swallowed hard, her pulse thrumming in her throat. By now, her handmaidens would have noted her absence. She just needed to calm down and keep her head cool. She turned and stared out at the dark streets. Spinnaker was a city designed with precision for high efficiency. All streets crossed at exactly ninety-degree angles, the tree tops lining major arteries were trimmed like cubes, and no-one was allowed to paint their house purple. The Palpatines were a very meticulous and proud family — she was told so when she first visited this city as a girl. A rival House to watch out for. She sighed and buried hands in her hair.

Through these efficient streets, the carriage made it to the docks in no time, and enveloped in darkness, the hostages were brought onto the lurking pirate ship within the hour.

Hondo came to re-inspect Anakin’s condition before locking him personally in the brig. Finally satisfied, he turned to Padmé:

“While I am afraid that your dangerous liaison here will have to remain below deck, we hope to have dinner with you, my dear. You will be pleased to know that I just dispatched the ransom letters to your families. We took the liberty of sending a small piece of your clothing, and a lock of hair from each. You didn’t even notice us getting them, I bet!”

* * *

Anakin’s mouth was drier than the desert sands of Tatooine, and a splitting headache ruled his head with an iron grip. He lay, still paralyzed, and prayed that Padmé would be okay, as her steps faded away over the wooden planks above. 

He cursed, then focused his mind on figuring out a way out of this embarrassment. He remembered Padmé’s strange remark about quicksilver. He had no idea what she meant, but he knew it had something to do with the amulet. As far as he could tell, the only parts of his body he could move were parts of his neck and face. He also appeared to have some control over his torso. So he did his best impression of a worm and painstakingly wiggled on one side to position himself so that the hand which still clutched Padmé’s gift of a locket was close to his mouth. He strained his neck as best he could and tried to insert his teeth between the medallion covers to open it. He struggled for a while, getting more and more frustrated, but finally propped the medallion in an upright position between his fingers. He bit into the crack between the two halves and gently pushed down. A trickle of silvery fog and starbursts enveloped his face, then slowly gathered to form an imposing creature with flowing waves of a mane and the wingspan of a small sailboat. It hovered over Anakin with glowing, intelligent eyes.

“Hello... Who are you, young human?” 

The creature spoke in an ancient mage dialect Anakin had studied upon the unwavering insistence of his father, from a few shriveled scrolls hidden in the depths of the library.

“Unghh…”

“You must be the one Mistress Padmé favors — Anakin. But what has happened to you?”

“Unh.”

“I see your predicament and I wish to help, but for me to know that you really are who I think you are, you must give me my true name.”

Despair. That’s all Anakin felt.

“Kiighn… kwiggh… arghh!”

The familiar waited patiently, tail tapping rhythmically on the floor.

“Hmm. Given your situation… Perhaps I may allow a nickname. Temporarily.”

“Argh… arghhugh. Arghou!”

“Artoo? Hmm — not bad. Now, should I remove this dart from your neck and cut your restraints?”

Relief, mixed with profound gratitude, flooded Anakin.

“Weh.”

The silvery familiar spun in the air like morning mist, and Anakin felt the needle, and the influx of poison, leaving his body. Breathe. He just needed to breathe. He could sense Padmé was alive and well. His healing spell coursed through him, slowly cleansing the toxin. He regained full control of his body in less than half an hour. 

“Thank you, friend,” he looked up at the winged creature in awe. A Naberrie familiar, probably summoned by a mage from her line centuries ago. He could never repay Padmé for such a gift — but first, first they needed to get out of here alive, and in one piece. And how had she known to bring a familiar too? He often wondered whether Padmé had hidden magic. There were just too many coincidences between the two of them. 

Artoo observed Anakin with reserved interest, grooming his front paw in silence. The young mage moved closer, slowly placed a hand on his shoulder, and whispered: 

“ _Quicksilver_.” 

The bond between them instantly snapped into place. He sensed Artoo’s brand of magic flowing through him. The familiar felt a rush of Anakin’s power too, and stretched out his clawed paws with a low growl.

“Artoo — do you like this name? Would you prefer another?”

The creature smirked.

“Oh, it suits me well. And I will always remember the moment you named me.”

Was he making fun of Anakin? 

“I see.” The mage sighed and stroked his back, while quickly explaining their predicament. The creature purred and when Anakin finished speaking, lifted his giant head:

“So. What do you want to do?”

“Well, Artoo, I plan to imprint a very particular branch of math on this pirate scum — one that he won’t be likely to forget. It begins with dividing his whole little operation here by zero.”

“You wish to fight the pirate’s illegal activity with an illegal algebraic operation.” The familiar pondered for a bit, then chuckled.

“Well, there was more to the joke, but I can tell that you and I are going to get along famously!” Anakin gave him a broad smile. Few people appreciated his sense of humor. He narrowed his eyes at the door and started planning a sequence of spells to blast through and toss the guards outside overboard with a minimal ruckus.

“Just follow my lead, Artoo. This is where the fun begins.”


	14. Day 09 [Flufftober]: Monochrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke presents his father with the newly-embroidered capes he's been working on for him.

Luke would not confess to being nervous. Not at all. His father had agreed to let him go to town on his wardrobe, shifting his monochrome proclivities towards something with a bit more colour—something Luke and his mother could enjoy, _would have enjoyed_ , far more—but… No. He wasn’t nervous.

His father still had to _wear them_. They still had to _look nice_!

“Is it time for the dramatic reveal?” Vader asked, not without amusement, as Luke ushered him into an unused guest room. The amusement tightened the knot in Luke’s stomach further. As did Piett’s professional grimace—Luke had employed him to help him set up the wardrobe and the display of capes in the bedroom, and the way his eyes had widened minutely, lips pressed tight together, before he schooled his expression into neutrality again… had not helped.

Luke ushered his father to sit down. Vader raised an eyebrow and did—on the bed.

It was _weird_ seeing such a large, dramatic man perched on the edge of a fancy four-poster bed—or, perhaps, it wasn’t—so Luke shooed him into the stately chair next to the window. The diamond-paned glass let in a lot of sunlight, so it was good lighting to view some of the things Luke had... put together.

“I don’t think I asked you, Luke,” Vader said calmly. He smiled a little—perhaps he was picking up on Luke’s nervousness, and wanted to put him at ease. “Where did you learn to embroider? Darning and rudimentary sewing I can see being useful, but—”

Luke bit his tongue. Did his father know how long his mother had survived? How was he going to tell him? It would be a massive shock… it wasn’t— it wasn’t exactly something he could just shout out at a moment’s notice—

“My… aunt encouraged it,” he said finally. It wasn’t a lie—it was doubly true, in fact. Aunt Sabé _and_ Aunt Beru had both encouraged him to try all sorts of crafts, anything to channel his energy into something that could make him happy. And embroidery had been his favourite, because Mama had taught it to him, and done it so often—half of his clothes as a child had had tiny thread jackrabbits and birds in flight and sheep and unicorns and dragons sewn and tucked around the folds, for him to discover as he wore them. It had been a game of theirs: she’d give him a new garment of clothing, and he’d try to find the pictures she’d no doubt put into it. There was always a heart, too.

She would always tuck a little heart somewhere in there, as well—as a constant reminder of how much she loved him. He’d treasured them then, and he’d treasured them even more after she’d died.

And if he’d used some of his spare red thread to do the same for his father… No one needed to know.

Let him find them for himself.

He gave a little shrug, and walked over to the wardrobe where the capes were hanging in. “It was a fun hobby to pick up, and… I really took to it.”

He knew his father could tell that wasn’t the whole truth, but any further interrogation was forestalled when Luke brought out the first cape, and held it up.

Vader’s scarred face shifted as he looked at it. Luke shifted, glad that he could spread his arms and block his own expression, to fully present the pattern. “Do you like it?”

This one had a simple pattern, which was why he showed it first: an alternating, interlocking pattern of swords and starflowers spread all over the fabric, glinting the same silver as the chain, the deep blue of the starflowers practically glowing against the black.

When Luke peeked out from behind the cape, his father’s face was slack.

He shuffled forward. “Do… do you want to…”

“Try it on?” Vader blinked, and stood up. “Yes, of course.”

He took it from Luke and slung it around his shoulders—carefully, far more carefully than Luke had ever seen him do so before. He fastened it at his neck and stared at the mirror set into the wardrobe door—observed the way the silver and black and blue fell around his suit.

Luke swallowed. “If you don’t like that one,” he said, “I have this one”—he held up one with a pattern of a great sword across the back, white light fracturing on the fabric—“or this one”—a more loopy, floral pattern of green and blue and splashes of red, starflowers and hydrangeas flowing from the shoulders to peter out in spindles of green down the back—“or this. Or even quite a few others, I— I didn’t do one with the pattern of a chimaera, I figure I should’ve, now, that’s your Lord Father’s symbol, but—”

“Luke, I have not worn the chimaera crest in years,” Vader said. “I understand why you did not want to touch that. _I_ do not want to touch it.”

Luke… didn’t think he wanted to ask what _that_ was supposed to mean. His father was loyal to Palpatine, the Emperor, his adopted father.

Wasn’t he?

Not now. Not now.

Vader ran his fingers down the patterns on the cape he was wearing, then the one in Luke’s hands. He particularly lingered on the starflowers, marvelled at the sword, and finally he said…

“You are extremely skilled,” he said. “And _patient_. You must have been working on these for an age.”

Luke shrugged. “Some of the seamstresses helped me out when it looked like I was struggling. I could never have got all three done without their help.”

“But you worked very hard on it, did you not? It shines through.”

Luke nodded hesitantly, and tried not to blush.

Vader turned away from the mirror to look Luke in the eye for a long, tender moment. Then he cupped the side of Luke’s face in one of his massive hands and pulled him towards him.

Luke stumbled forward, letting out a small gasp when he found himself enveloped in the cape as well, his father’s arms around him. He buried his face in the armour on Vader’s chest.

“They’re beautiful, my son,” Vader murmured. Piett, still standing stoically in the corner, looked like he was torn between cooing at the display and remaining stoically neutral in the face of it, but Luke couldn’t see that. He was focused on the sensation of being, quite literally, _wrapped_ in a parent’s love. “I… I did not know what to expect, and I should not have doubted you. I will be glad to wear them.”

A pause, then… “I… was hesitant, I confess. About wearing the starflower, your mother’s symbol”— _the symbol of Rebellion_ , Luke thought to himself, _the symbol she rebelled and died under_ —“when her family loathes me so. But… this is your symbol. The swords and the starflowers. They are _yours_.

“I am prouder than anything to wear your colours, my son.”

Luke wanted to cry. He tilted his face to look up at Vader, and found a soft expression of unspeakable devotion gazing back.

“You are so much like her, you know,” Vader murmured. “I look at her, and think she’s still with us.”

Luke’s hand crept up the fold of the cloak, thumb skimming over the inside lining until he ran over the little heart he’d sewn there, where it would fall to settle over his father’s breast.

“Of course she’s still with us, Father,” he said. “Where else would she be?”


	15. Day 10 [Flufftober]: "Once upon a time..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padmé tells Luke a bedtime story and tries not to think about her ghosts.

_…Palpatine’s armies have pressed forward toward Chandrila, and Butterfly’s correspondences grow increasingly desperate. I think we both know, my friend, that the time to act is now, or we risk losing all our tentative alliances we have worked so hard to build._

_Your friend and—most importantly—ally,_

_Starflower_

“Mama?”

Padmé had scarcely put down the quill and blown on the ink to dry it when the soft call made her start—she twisted around in her chair at her desk to see Luke standing in the doorway, his two knitted dragon toys held tightly to his chest.

“Luke?” she asked quietly. “What is it, little star?”

He came closer, and tugged at the hem of her pale blue nightdress; she bent down and picked him up. She just smiled when he peered curiously at the letter she was just writing to the contact _Snowheart_. He couldn’t read yet; she had nothing to worry about.

“Luke?” she coaxed again, bringing his gaze back to her and wrapping her arms around his torso. He snuggled against her, cuddling. The head of his blue and red dragons—Scaley and Sparky, respectively—switched against her. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Luke nodded solemnly. “I… can’t sleep. Can—” He looked up at her with those big blue eyes—the ones that looked so much like his father’s they never failed to cleave her right to the bone. “Can you tell me a story?”

“Of course, little star.” She stood up, padding barefoot through to the next room over, where Luke lay alone in the double bed they shared. Sabé had pulled some strings to get them such a nice cottage to hide in for a few months, while Padmé conducted Rebel movements from afar and Luke grew up none the wiser to the tragic world his family tried to protect him from.

She laid him down into the bed and pulled the covers up right to his chin. “Hold on just a moment,” she said, then grabbed her hairbrush from the bedside table and briefly ran in through her curls. She needed to sleep now, anyway—that letter would be sent in the morning—so she climbed into bed next to him and smiled when he immediately latched onto her, hugging him back.

“What sort of story do you want to hear?” she asked softly, sliding down to pull the covers up over them both and letting her head rest on the pillow. She used to know so many stories, but now the only one she knew was a tragedy, and it played out in her mind every time she looked into Luke’s eyes and saw Anakin staring back.

“A happy one,” he mumbled into her side. “About siblings! Twins!”

Padmé stiffened. “What?” she uttered, trying to keep her voice calm. “You… want to hear a story about twins?”

Luke nodded. “I dreamed that I had a twin,” he said. “She chased me around the gardens with a sword and whacked me on the shins.”

Padmé’s heart clenched. “Well, that’s what sisters do.” She tried not to think of Sola—tried not to think of the fact Sola, and her nieces, believed her _dead_.

“I wish I had a sister.”

“Believe me, little star,” Padmé choked out. She _really_ tried not to think of Luke’s twin—the baby stolen and spirited away before she could hold her for the first time, before she could hear her do anything but scream. “I do too.”

“So, can you tell me a story?”

Padmé… pulled herself together. Reigned herself in. She had a son to comfort.

“Naboo has a lot of stories about twins,” she said. “They’re magical, they’re bound by strings of destiny that not even the Spinner herself can reweave. They share dreams; if they are mage children, their powers double when they’re close to each other.”

“That’s not a _story_.” Luke pouted. “Can you tell me a story?”

“Of course, Luke.” She took a deep breath, and thought… of the Sun and Moon. Their place in the heavens. The stories they were born from.

Their association with the legendary warrior Anakin, who had never fallen—not the way her Anakin had.

“Once upon a time…”


	16. Day 11 [Flufftober]: Radiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vader wants to see a demonstration of Luke's magic.

“You’ve seen me do magic before,” Luke said. “Why do you want to see it again?”

Vader studied him slowly. 

He’d thought that asking Luke nicely, after his escapade in the gardens, if he wanted to spar and train with him would… help further endear him to his father. He’d hoped that Luke would be enthusiastic, would be quick to jump on the opportunity—and he had been. But…

Luke scowled. “Can’t we just spar again?” He hoisted the sword Vader had lent him higher, and adopted a ready position, eyeing Vader nervously. “I’ll beat you this time, for sure.”

Vader had knocked Luke on his backside seven times already, but he raised an eyebrow and humoured his son. “Let us go again, then.”

Luke arranged his features in an expression of such fierce determination that when he lunged forward, sword ringing and clanging loudly, feet darting forward and backward, left and right, like a deft Alderaanian mountain goat, grip on the hilt firm and unyielding—

—Vader _almost_ felt bad for knocking him on his arse.

Luke went down with an _oomph_ , the sand of the—newly expanded—practise ring in the top of the gardens puffing up around him. He shielded his eyes on instinct before it got into them too badly. 

Vader spun his sword in his hand. “You were saying?”

Luke did not respond to the jab. He grunted, scowling deeply, and pushed himself back to his feet. “Again,” he insisted.

“You fought better than this during our duel,” Vader observed. “You were using your magic to supplement yourself then; why do you turn away from it now? It could help you fight more effectively, enhance your strikes, help predict your opponent’s moves—”

“You’re not using magic. I know you’re not; I can sense it.” Sweat poured down Luke’s forehead. “If you’re going to go easy on me, I’m going to go easy on you.”

“Luke, I am wiping the floor with you. I have been training for longer than you have been alive. Do not be arrogant enough—or harsh with yourself enough—to expect to be able to beat me immediately. You held your own in that duel far better than any other teenage mage could hope to.”

Luke didn’t respond. Just sucked in deep breaths and remained tense, taut, like there was a hidden pressure bowing his shoulders.

“We’re done with the swords,” he decided finally. “Come, Luke; let us exchange magic. I am certain there are spells you know that I do not—I examined the unlocking charm you tried on the window in your room and it was highly impressive; any stronger, and it would have worked.”

“Yeah, but that’s the problem. It _didn’t_.”

Vader frowned at him. “If this is to do with the Jedi’s _do or do not, there is no try_ sentiment, I will have yet another issue to add to my list of grievances against that Council.”

“It’s not that.”

Vader studied him closely again. The way his eyes tracked Vader’s moves enviously. The way—

“Show me a spell,” he asked—gently. “Anything.”

Luke… hesitated. Lifted his hand, then lowered it again.

“You will not fail,” Vader said. “I know that. I have seen your skill. I will not see whatever magic you conjure up and find it lacking.”

Luke scowled. “You’re one of the most powerful mages on the continent—” he said; so, Vader thought with a tinge of pride, that _was_ the issue.

“And you are _radiant_ , my son. Do not doubt that. It is no wonder that Obi-Wan wanted you for an apprentice so badly.”

Luke flushed pink. “You don’t know—”

“I’ve fought you. I’ve read the reports. I was there at Yavin. _I have seen your magic, Luke, and it is glorious._ ”

He smiled at him. “Permit a proud father to see it again?”

After a moment, Luke smiled back—it was tiny, it was hesitant, but it was there. Vader counted it as a win.

Then he opened his palms and fire blossomed out, twisting in shapes of birds, trees, dancers. 

Vader watched mesmerised, and marvelled at how talented his son was.


	17. Day 12 [Flufftober]: Clenched fists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While living in Tatooine, Luke gets into a fight and Obi-Wan isn't prepared to find out why.

“Ben?” Luke said, his voice querulous. Obi-Wan looked up and frowned at his apprentice; it wasn’t like him to linger outside the cottage, in the sun. He had his mother’s blood—he’d adapted well to Tatooine’s harsh climate and weather, but that didn’t mean he _liked it._ “Can I talk to you?”

“Of course.” Obi-Wan opened the door and ushered him in. The Lars couple had been very kind to take in him and Luke after Padmé had died, claiming Luke as their nephew and Obi-Wan as the great-uncle who’d delivered him to them, and they’d even given Obi-Wan the… shed… at the back of their property. It was nearer the canyons, so slightly more sheltered from the rancid heat, and he appreciated the effort, for all that it was a disgusting hovel of a thing, and the heat could never truly be escaped.

Luke, however, was utterly unbothered by horrid places; he’d seen enough of them when Padmé had travelled around with him. He usually stormed right it to perch on whatever patchwork chair Obi-Wan had managed to piece together that day, and chatter about what it was like to work on the farm, attend the village school, hang out with his Darklighter friend.

Today, he was more subdued.

He slunk inside, hands balled into fists at his side, head bowed. Obi-Wan frowned after him as he closed the door, and gestured for him to take a seat.

“Would you like some milk?” he asked, to break the silence.

Luke shook his head, the unfailing manners his mother had taught him rising to the forefront with: “No, thank you, Ben.”

“Hmm.” Obi-Wan couldn’t blame him. Blue milk tasted terrible. “I hope you’re not here for a magic lesson? I told you,” he tapped his knee playfully as he took a seat opposite him, smiling, “we can only do that on the weekends.”

“It’s not that.” Luke curled in on himself further. “I got in a fight.”

Only then did Obi-Wan notice the red starbursts on his knuckles. The blood trickling onto the chair; the bruises on his arms.

Luke lifted his head to meet his gaze, finally, his hair falling aside his face. Darkness swamped his left eye.

“ _Luke_!” Obi-Wan’s hand was up in a moment, hovering over his face, muttering an incantation. Luke winced as a fierce itching no doubt chittered over his face like a swarm of ants, but the alarming purple stain was wiped away. “What happened? Who attacked you?”

“I…” Luke kicked his legs—still short and gangly for a thirteen-year-old, he couldn’t quite touch the floor, but he scuffed it and drew curves in the sand scattered across it. “I did. I attacked them.”

Obi-Wan paused.

“That wasn’t very mature of you, Luke,” he chided. He didn’t know what else to say.

Where was Padmé? _She_ would know.

“I know!” Luke burst out. “But— but—”

Obi-Wan waited patiently.

“They said that Mama abandoned me,” he muttered. “That she dumped me with you and left because she didn’t want me any more. That was why she said goodbye and rode out. That was why she never came back.”

Oh.

“Luke…”

Before he knew what he was doing, almost, Obi-Wan reached out to put a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “Luke, you know that’s not—”

“But what if it _is_! We— we’ve been here for years, and she never came back, and maybe she’s dead but I never said goodbye to her and—”

“Your mother did not want to leave you. The task she embarked on was one absolutely vital, one she felt—” He choked up. “—one she felt she could not entrust to anyone but herself, and she chose to take the risk, alone. She thought she would return—she thought that if she was successful, that would result in a better, more honest life for her, and for you. Especially for you.”

Luke said, “Why did she leave? What task did she—”

“That, I cannot tell you. I am not sure I know myself. But she loved you, Luke. She did not abandon you.”

When Luke started crying, Obi-Wan realised just how long this had been bottled up.

Awkwardly, he leant forward and hugged him. Luke sank into it.

“I miss her,” he whispered.

“I know, little one,” he murmured back. “I know. But believe me, Luke… she’s still with us. She’s still with _you_.” He brushed his cheek. “Don’t take any notice of those bullies.”

Luke smiled. “I won’t.”

“And I have to ask.” Obi-Wan gave a pregnant pause. “Did you beat them?”

Luke laughed. “Knocked them to kingdom come.”

Obi-Wan smiled. “Your father would be proud.”

He wasn’t anticipating the second stab of pain that Luke’s overjoyed expression would cause.


	18. Day 10 [Flufftober]: Once Upon a Time

“Once upon a time…”

Faded leaves and petals spilled from between the pages of the book, and rained down on the polished floorboards. The words failed him. His fingers dug into the leather cover, knuckles turning white. Here lay her favorite hydrangeas, and over there — a scattering of peonies, roses, and colorful tree leaves. White magnolia blossoms, too - one of them landing next to Luke’s chair. A painting of broken memories.

Once upon a time… She’d told him with star-lit eyes under the scented veil of these same magnolias that he was to be a father, and he’d held her close, drunk on happiness. Their fragrance still haunted him at night. He’d tried to save them— her beloved trees — when he’d decided to rebuild the manor. But their bare branches and shriveled roots were too far gone. Not a single offshoot had taken, even in the best of soils.

Once upon a time, he’d spared no effort in bringing this rare shade of hydrangea all the way back from Spinnaker. He had helped her plant them, in her chosen spot in the garden. Once upon a time, he’d known how to make her happy, and he’d been the happiest of men.

She was more than halfway into her pregnancy when they’d taken that long walk to collect the leaves. Maple, oak, birch, aspen… She had a design in her mind and was after particular shapes and colors. He plucked any leaf she pointed to that she couldn’t reach. To her delight, not even the highest branches were safe from magic. They’d walked for hours, and he’d been worried that she was overexerting herself. It had been just a few months before…

“Father?…”

Once upon a time, he’d known her love, and her trust. He had not deserved them. He had never deserved her.

Someone nudged his arm gently.

“Father? Are you alright?”

Luke’s eyes searched his face with a worried look, and Vader struggled to regain his composure. Here was their child, but they had both missed his childhood. Or had she? Luke was hesitant to ever speak of her, and Vader sensed that he knew much more than he was letting on. Had it been painful for her to look into her son’s eyes, and see a constant reminder of his father? She shouldn’t have worried. His kind heart came from her, not him.

Once upon a time, they had kept secrets from each other, and it had destroyed them. But he would let the boy keep his secrets, for now.

He closed the book and cleared his throat.

“She… Your Mother. She wanted to make a sun-catcher with these. She meant to arrange them between two pieces of glass, cut like a dragon. She wanted to hang it in your room.”

Luke’s gaze darted away, evasively One of these days, and soon, he would finally make Kenobi bleed, and get every little detail about Padmé’s fate he was owed. Just not today.

The boy let go of his arm, and kneeled on the floor, careful not to disturb any of the scattered petals. He gathered them up, one by one, and laid them carefully on the folded pieces of paper she had used to press them in.

“What was my mother’s favorite creature? Was it a dragon?”

Vader hesitated.

“She loved dragons. But the firebird was her favorite.”

Luke thought of Leia’s golden familiar — Threepio — and smiled.

“What if we cut the glass like a firebird, and make a sun-catcher? For her?”

This kind boy. He did not deserve him either.

Vader simply nodded and waved a hand to help his son gather the scattered leaves.

Luke unfolded another piece of heavy paper, but this one was not blank. It held two columns of neat writing: some words in her hand, some in Vader’s. And next to each column, two stacks of numbers, under the letters P and A. The boy scanned over the finding, mesmerized. Vader stared at it with horror. It was a list of names, with ranks. A smile spread slowly on his son’s face as he realized what it was he was holding.

“So if I were a girl, my name would have been Leia! It was your top choice by far,” he glanced at Vader, who did not dare breathe. “Wait until I tell Leia about it.”

This brash statement sobered him up.

“May I remind you that we are at war with Alderaan? No son of mine will be speaking to their Rebellion leaders.”

“Not even that Rebel son of yours?”

Vader cast him a sidelong glare.

“Especially not him.”

“Oh, I see. How about your other son…” Luke glanced at the piece of paper, “Wilbert?…”

Luke erupted in laughter.

“Wait… You wanted to name me Wilbert? Wow. Thank the Force mama had some sense. But, you did put down some great names for a girl.”

Vader did not respond. He’d been troubled by dreams of a daughter, for years. A spitfire of a girl who looked just like Padmé, but glared at him with his own impish grin. He would lift her high, and carry her on his shoulders. She would swing her play-sword, and command him: “Papa, jump over the brook, here!” They kept chasing after a boy in the garden, someone she was trying to catch.

He’d finally resorted to have a Healer prepare potions for him, to make the dreams stop.

Luke had finished gathering the petals and laid the last piece of folded paper carefully down on a table by his bed. The searching look returned, and his face darkened with concern.

“I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to…”

Vader ought to steel himself, wish Luke good night, and leave. He hated letting his son see him so vulnerable. The boy reached for the book he still clutched in his hands and sat next to him.

“I may still be slow with this script but... What if tonight, I read to you instead?”


	19. Day 13 [Whumptober]: Delayed Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Destroying the Death Star put a target on Luke's back. One that, months before he learns the truth, Vader is all too happy to take a shot at.
> 
> Or: One of Luke and Vader's many unpleasant meetings before they both knew the truth.

_Route them out._

_Find this Rebel cell that used Bespin as its base._

_And bring me the war mage who destroyed the Death Star._

Luke was hidden right underneath the floorboards of the room Vader said that in when he said it, voice booming and feet stomping over the carpet. Dust shucked off and onto all their heads; Luke tried not to cough.

He glanced down, looking around the secret room. Wedge met his gaze and nodded, waiting for his signal; Hobbie was near to the trapdoor onto the next floor. There were stormtroopers in the basement, he knew; they just had to wait for them to finish their search, then they could leave, sneak out, try to escape…

They hadn’t even used Bespin as the base. Hoth, a nearby village, had been closer to where they’d set up camp. But Lando had been a great ally, and his inn, _The Cloud City_ , was a good place to gain gossip and meet dodgy dealers, so they spent a lot of time here…

…and Vader had caught on.

“I know he is here,” Vader continued, “and I will not leave until he is dead.”

Luke took several deep, calming breaths. Ben. Ben was nearby—he couldn’t lead Vader straight to him, but he did need to escape.

There was a creaking and a groaning as Vader lowered his massive bulk into one of the chairs in the _Cloud City_ ’s parlour, _clearly_ ready to wait until Lando cracked and betrayed where they were.

“If you have any information about these insurgents, innkeeper,” Vader intoned. “You would be well-compensated for it. Not to mention it would be _wise_ not to conceal it.”

“Of course, Lord Vader.” Lando was nervous, but he lied with the ease of a charmed and charming gambler. “Unfortunately I have no personal knowledge of their presence here, but if any of my connections and associates can help you—”

Hobbie, next to the trapdoor and peering through, made the _all clear_ sign. Luke almost missed it in the dim, dim light of secret room.

He pressed his gaze to the cracks in the floorboards above him—saw, for one last time, the spectacular visage of the demon hunting him—then crept toward the trapdoor and silently swung it open.

_Quiet,_ he signed at them all. _Careful_.

They kept moving.

Dropped into the basement below, one by one—sure enough, no troopers. There was a second set of steps out the back of the building, he knew, into the alleyways that the troopers likely weren’t policing; he made a beeline for them, his Rogues falling into step behind them.

One they were out in the alleys, no one would look twice. They weren’t exactly wearing Rebel insignia, and soon they’d just be another crew of rowdy teenage boys and young men, stumbling along the streets. They just needed to get there, he thought as they reached the top of the steps, and climbed out into the alley, shivering against the harsh north winds. They just… needed… to get there…

A trooper pointed at them, sword drawn.

“There they are!”

They scattered.

Luke barked orders to them to separate and meet back at their third arranged rendezvous, the old oak tree with the old noose tied to it, and they fled into separate directions like an explosion of gunpowder. The troopers hesitated to pursue them at first, studying each kid—eventually they evidently figured that Wedge, the oldest of those Rebel kids, was the leader, as the biggest and tallest, and they stormed after him—

_No._

No.

Wedge wasn’t getting captured. Not on Luke’s watch.

He raised his hand and a shower of sparks shot out of it, setting the nearest tree alight with a fire that didn’t burn. He threw that same cerulean fire at the trooper nearest to him, who stumbled back with a shout, and kept running.

“That’s him! That’s the kid who destroyed the Death Star!”

Well.

Shit.

He kept running.

The river was ahead—the river marked the boundary of the town. He just had to get across it, he just had to get there and dive into the frozen woods and lose them in there… He was a Rebel who’d been hiding in the tundra for months now, he could easily gain the upper hand there…

Until the very earth shook beneath him.

He went down with a gasp, sucking in air and _rolling_ as a massive chunk of the road, the size of a cart, slammed into the spot his head had been moments previous.

“There you are,” Vader’s voice mocked. “Come out of your hidey-hole, little rat?”

Luke threw himself back to his feet and turned away from Vader, running straight _away_ , not letting him see his face—

He cried out when sparks crackled over his back, smoke rising from his shirt, but he doused them and kept running.

Vader didn’t even bother to run after him. He just walked, slow and inexorable, forward and forward and forward…

“You think you can run, whelp? How did a child like you destroy the Death Star? I know it was you, I recognise your magic… but you are even more pathetic than I imagined.”

Luke panted, taking a sharp turn at the next rode, friendly gardens of homely magnolias erupting on either side. He just… needed… to get… to… the bridge…

There! He could hear the river, gushing and shattering against the rocks and the banks, as fast as a whip or a ship in a gale, and now he could see it, glinting at the end of the street, steel-grey under the cold, cold sky.

He pressed on, running full pelt, the footbridge right up ahead—

And then Vader’s hand was closing around his wrist, grinding the bones together with the force of it and Luke _screamed_.

“I have you now, rat.”

Vader yanked him back but Luke pivoted on his foot, bringing out the short dagger under his clothes—he’d left his kyberblade with Ben, shit, _shit_ —to brandish. It glanced harmlessly off of Vader’s armour and the dark lord didn’t even flinch, gripping tighter… and drawing his sword with his free hand.

“No!” Luke shouted.

“Prepare to meet—”

Luke twisted, _twisted_ , and finally got free, the strike that Vader had been aiming for him just carving a shallow furrow across his chest instead, Luke wrenching his hand away, feet pounding at the planks underfoot as he crested the bridge, and—

He skidded to a halt so fast he nearly fell over.

Troopers lined the other side of the bank. One, with the blue insignia of the 501st on his shoulder, stood broad and tall right on the other end of the bridge, his sword drawn.

Pointed straight at Luke.

Luke turned, trying to— No. He couldn’t run back.

Vader was on the other end of the bridge, observing him with amusement.

“You have run far, fast and long,” he declared, taking a step toward him. Luke twitched, like the frightened animal Vader wanted him to be, taking a step back from him. “But you can run no longer. This is the destiny you courted the moment you drove Tarkin’s Imperial forces out of Alderaan.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have had to drive them out if they hadn’t invaded,” Luke hissed, his grip on his dagger white-knuckled. It was short, useless against the towering war mage who could crush him with his little finger, but it was all he had.

That was, precisely, the point.

Luke’s magic bunched in his gut, ready to be unleashed. _Ben_ , he thought to himself. He didn’t see a way out of this one. _Ben, I’m sorry…_

_I’m sorry it had to end this way._

_I’m sorry you’ll have to bury me as well as Mama._

Vader took another step forward. Black sparks swirling around his clenched fist, and the darkness howled around Luke. “Surrender,” he advised, “and perhaps I will make your death quick. So long as you cooperate.”

Luke glared at Vader. “I—”

Vader waited, amused. He knew when he had his prey trapped.

“I…”

Luke turned back to stare at the 501st soldiers, blocking the exit. Fire hummed in his palm.

He could take out the first one, maybe. A well-placed shot, a stroke of his blade… he could do it. Take out the first one, and the two flanking him with fire, and fire raged. It feasted. It could take out a few more while he fled—

And the rest would be upon him before he could hope to escape.

There were, simply, too many of them to escape on the bridge.

“Surrender,” Vader intoned. “Though I have no qualms with standing here forever, or casting a spell so that you die being roasted from the outside in. At least that would be an excellent shield against the cold, no?”

Luke swallowed. His teeth were already starting to chatter—he’d left his warm coat in the _Cloud City_.

He hoped the Rogues had got away safely.

“I,” he said at last—because what else was there to say—“will _never_ surrender.”

And then he threw the dagger at Vader’s head, fisted the fire he’d been summoning in his right hand, pressed it against his heart—

—seized the railing of the bridge with his left hand—

—and vaulted it.

There was a momentary rush, a falling—then the freezing water _engulfed_ him, knocked the breath from his lungs and the light from his eyes, and snatched him away.

*

“Luke. Luke, wake up.”

Warmth at his chest. Warmth in his heart. The water inside him misting and rising, disapparating at the murmur of a few choice ones, and then—

He sat up abruptly, coughing his heart out, shaking from head to toe.

“Luke. Little one.” Ben’s voice. Ben’s hands, reaching for a thick woollen jacket and draping it around his shoulders. Ben’s arms, cradling him against the grass and the mud of the riverbank; Ben’s silhouette eclipsing the light.

He blinked. “What…”

“You nearly _drowned_ ,” Ben snapped. Luke started at the anger in his voice. “Your— your conjure warmth spell was impressive, and it _kept you alive_. You nearly drowned, you nearly froze to death, you—”

Arms around him. More voices, murmuring—he peeled his eyes open fully to see Leia and Wedge exchanging fierce, worried words under a pine tree a few dozen paces away, tossing him looks.

Ben pressed his hand into Luke’s back and whispered another warmth spell; Luke shuddered at how _good_ it felt to feel the magic bleed him dry of the cold.

“That was so close, Luke,” Ben said. “Don’t make it come that close ever again, do you hear me?”

Luke swallowed, and nodded. “I hear you. Vader—”

“I know. You did well.” Ben took a deep breath. “We knew he would be after you. After— after Alderaan.”

“Yes.”

“And… Luke, you should know, about him…”

Luke tilted his head up to meet Ben’s eye, fix him with a questioning gaze.

“…never mind,” Ben said. “Actually, never mind. But…” He pushed a damp lock of hair back from Luke’s face. “Stay away from Vader, Luke. Promise me?”

“I promise.”

Ben relaxed, for all that they knew it wasn’t a promise that he could keep.

“And stay away from large bodies of water as well,” he said. “Or, at least, get some swimming lessons.”

“I know how to swim!”

“It has been quite a few years since you learned, Luke, and it shows.”

“I’m not—!"

“I nearly lost you,” Ben whispered. Luke hissed as he hugged him, tighter, and aggravated the shallow wound across his chest—he hadn’t realised how much blood was there.

Leia stepped forward. “Get Commander Skywalker into the wagon, to warm up and recover from his _dip_ ,” she ordered. “Then let’s get out of here.”

She leaned down to put a hand on Luke’s shoulder, and help him up. “The Rogues all escaped, and met our men at the rendezvous point,” she said to him. “Don’t worry, Luke. They got out alright.”

Luke gave a shaky smile. “That’s a relief to hear.”

“They escaped Vader. You escaped Vader. For… what? The third time? Fourth time? Umpteenth time.” She squeezed his shoulder as he started staggering toward the wagon. “You’re building up a streak. A true escape artist—so much luck.”

“I am,” Luke agreed. “But one I won’t be able to keep.”

He didn’t know why the wave of melancholy suddenly hit him so potently. He just knew that he was glad that Ben was out of earshot, now.

“One day, Vader will come for me,” he said, “and my luck will run out.”


	20. Day 14 [Flufftober, Angstober]: Possibilities | Insult

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While he waits for Luke to wake after they first return to the manor, Vader thinks about what he's going to tell his Lord Father about what has transpired.

Luke had yet to wake up after their duel and Vader could not do nothing but hover over him forever.

His Lord Father demanded an update on his attempts to capture and kill Toivo.

Vader paused, staring at the letter in his lap. He had moved his desk in here, so as to more easily watch over Luke, but he found it immensely distracting at the best of times; his son was so bright, so brilliant, that he drew his attention with the slightest hitch in his breathing. But now… Now it was particularly pertinent.

Palpatine wanted an update on Toivo’s capture.

His letter was full of foolish words that Vader had deluded himself into believing for far too long. _This war mage is a petty threat. A nothing. A useless wretch._ Vader himself had believed such a thing, satisfied himself with watching the little rat run, knowing that just because a creature was fast, that did not make it strong.

But he’d been wrong.

He’d been so, so wrong.

Reading his father’s letter, full of insults for this boy-mage who had chased and embarrassed them for so long, who had cost them the war in Alderaan, who had foiled so many plans at every turn… Vader was furious. With his father, with himself.

They were wilfully blind. Dismissive of a threat they did not understand, a threat they had no idea of.

Luke was family.

They were fortunate he had not wrought even more destruction than he already had.

Luke’s power… the possibilities for what sort of threat he could unleash…

The possibilities for what an ally he could be…

Luke was his son.

And surely his son would agree to fight by his father’s side?

Vader allowed himself to picture it, for a moment. His son—only seventeen, still so young—and him, standing side by side against the horrors of the war and the court… sparring, with blades and with magic… Luke coming to him for advice about a particular spell… Luke smiling at him…

Vader finally having a piece of Padmé back, after all this time.

“Luke,” he whispered. He still hadn’t got tired of saying his name, told to him by Obi-Wan though it was. Luke. Light.

The little boy he’d thought lost—but no longer.

Padmé’s angel.

He reached over, to brush his hand over Luke’s hair, as tenderly as he could. And then he picked up his father’s angry, insulting letter, and threw it into the fire. It crumpled, blackened.

He picked up a fresh sheet of paper and got to work on the blandest, most distracted, most noncommittal description of an event he had ever written.

There was no need for his Lord Father to know, just yet, that his long-lost son had been found.

He would tell him. He would have to, in the end. But not yet.

Let the old man scheme. The worst of his machinations would be kept away from Luke, for now.

The worst of _everything_ would be kept away from Luke, so long as Vader was there to protect him.


	21. Day 15 [Flufftober, Angstober, Whumptober]: Breathless | Cold | Magical Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke and Vader spar. They're bonding.

Luke’s breaths heaved as he dodged the blow, to the side, up and down, as deft as a teenage boy could be. Vader would admit to being impressed, but that didn’t mean he went easy on him—he swung that sword with as much vigour as he had in his youth, as he had when he’d exchanged duelling lessons with Padmé for lessons with how to fire a crossbow with the accuracy she did. The lessons had been as much an excuse to get close to her as they had been attempts to get better at his shooting, and Vader found a warmth in his chest as he fought her son, recognising a lot of the small stature and movements of his, the way he twisted out the way, used his size to his advantage.

Then Vader was flat on his back, the blue, blue sky arching over him, and the warmth in his chest was a trickle of blood from the shallow swipe Luke had got in on him before he’d kicked him over.

Vader laughed. Loudly and jovially—Luke seemed almost taken aback by it, before he laughed and smiled a little, nervously, too. He pointed his sword at Vader’s face, chest heaving, breathless.

“Very good,” Vader praised. Luke’s cheeks were pink, and he was shivering from the cold snap of early morning air, but he was _glowing_. He’d won. “You are much improved.”

Luke’s cheeks pinked further, and he sheathed his sword, offering his father a hand up. Vader took it gratefully, though Luke barely did any of the work of actually pulling him; Vader knew that he, and his armour, were far too heavy to expect that.

“Thanks to you,” Luke said, grasping his right arm awkwardly with his left and not quite meeting his eye.

“Thank to your own work,” Vader corrected, picking up his sword from where it had fallen in the sand and lifting it into a ready position. “Are you ready to go again?”

Luke didn’t respond, and after a moment Vader noticed: he was shivering. Somewhat violently, in fact. “Are you cold?”

Luke swallowed and shook his head. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” But when he drew his sword again, his arm trembled enough that the blade wobbled.

“You are not fine,” Vader said firmly.

Luke let out a breath. “It’s my arm, alright?” He gripped his right arm again—perhaps that wasn’t such a nervous gesture after all. “It… it still hurts, from…” He trailed off.

Vader went cold himself, then. “It still hurts,” he said baldly, “from when I stabbed you.”

Luke shrugged. “You took care of… the magical side of it. And all. I don’t know what that spell did to me that put me to sleep, but I rode out the effects. But you stabbed a kyberblade into my arm; it still hurts.”

“Ah.” Vader dropped his sword in the sand—ignoring Luke’s gape; he’d been trained by Obi-Wan _this weapon is your life_ Kenobi—and stepped forward to hold out his hand. Luke, recognising the gesture for what it was for, gave him his arm.

“There are ways to ease this pain, son,” Vader reminded him. “Ways which are perfectly accessible to you through magic.”

Luke fidgeted. “Yeah, but… I’ve never learnt any. They’re complicated. And I didn’t want to mess it up _even more_.”

“Considering the amount of trouble you get into on a daily basis purely by accident, Obi-Wan was a fool to let you so much as pick up a sword without drilling you on the most rigorous of healing magics,” Vader said dryly. Luke squawked his indignation. “We will be resolving that mistake, I assure you. But for now…”

He turned Luke arm over, rolled up the sleeve—the angry red mark still on the skin made him fight a wince—and laid his hand over it, as carefully as he could.

He whispered a rune word, and channelled… love. Magic coursed through him and he saw his mother, smiling at him; Padmé’s mother, pushing her hair back fondly as they talked as her sister’s wedding. He ghosted his fingers over his own son’s skin, now, as gentle as could be, and smiled to himself as he watched it knit together better, the mark fading under the faint blue sparks sinking into Luke’s forearm—as he heard Luke’s breathless sigh of relief.

“That won’t have handled it totally,” Vader said, “but it will have helped greatly. Does it feel better?”

Luke nodded. “It does.” He smiled. “I’m ready to go again, now.”

“No.” Vader picked up one of his newly-embroidered capes from the side of the ring and put it back on. When he took Luke’s shoulder, he made sure the fabric covered Luke’s shoulders to an extent, as well. “I tire of fighting. Would you like to walk in the garden instead?”

Luke smiled up at him. “Sure.”


	22. Day 12 [Angstober]: Disaster, and Day 11 [Flufftober]: Radiance

“Oh! You are here!” Piett stormed into the kitchens, weary, “General Veers has been looking all over for you.”

Luke glanced at him over a large bowl he was preoccupied with stirring. His face was dusted with flour.

“I told the General that I plan on skipping the afternoon lessons.”

Piett took a five-second pause trying to decide who, in the absence of Lord Vader, had the actual authority to decide what lessons Luke could and could not skip. He came up empty-handed.

“Ah… “

Apparently, Luke had been busy in the kitchen for some time. There was a myriad of spices and ingredients on the counter, and several batches of colorful dough, which the boy’s hands and sleeves were partially covered with. The rest of the kitchen staff observed Luke’s foray into whatever this was with fascination, while Nella stood close by, trying to assist. She looked up to Piett with a radiant smile he was fairly certain the present situation hardly warranted.

“The young master is trying to bake a treat, from Tatooine.”

“Uh, don’t call me that, Nella!”

“Sure thing, little lord.”

Luke rolled his eyes.

“I am trying to make a pastry my aunt taught me,” he clarified, “but it’s been a long time.”

Piett tried feverishly not to speculate on how exactly this “aunt” was related to Lord Vader, while Nella added with a meaningful stare:

“The young master is baking a surprise for his father’s Life Day.”

Luke wiped a spot of dough that had stuck to his cheek.

“Oh yes. I just realized today that this is why he got summoned to Coruscant — thank you again, Nella,” he cast one of his disarming smiles at the head chef, and Piett could see her literally melt under his radiance. The boy was infectious. But next, Luke shifted his gaze to Piett with an entirely different expression.

“At least _someone_ here sees fit to tell me the important things.”

The seneschal cursed internally. The boy channeled that familiar, deeply chilling, blue glare a little too well.

He cleared his throat and decided to try for small talk.

“Tatooine, eh? What are people there like?”

Luke’s stern expression shifted marginally.

“Tough.”

Then, he re-focused on his mixing task.

“But, they still love their treats.”

“Let me help you with the dry mix, little lord,” offered Nella. “But you will need to tell me the ingredients.”

Luke scrunched his face.

“Yeah, I am trying to remember, but mostly, we will be making it up as we go along.”

Piett stepped close to the counter and took a chair. Max would have to forgive him for this.

“I offer my services as a taster.”

“You should watch out,” smiled Luke, “Nella told me she’s never seen that spice mix used in a pastry before.”

“Oh, I have a tough stomach!”

Piett looked around the kitchen and marveled at the colorful transformation which had somehow taken place over the past few months. Before Luke came along, Lord Vader had been eating the same two meals every single day since… well, forever. Now, there were three times the usual number of fresh fruits, spices in jars of all kinds and colors, jams, honey, sugar in every size of a crystal, even dyed ones — Nella had outdone herself for the boy, and spared no effort to stock up well for his every whim.

But what else could he expect? Luke was beginning to soften even Veers.

When the small batch of pastries were out of the oven, Luke laid them out proudly on a cooling rack over the polished bluestone counter.

“No figs here, so we used apricots,” he pointed at the jam bits peaking from inside the pastry. “Well! Let them cool just a bit, and we will try them!”

* * *

Piett was the first to try them.

“How… innovative!” He exclaimed, and a giant smile spread on Luke’s face.

“Nella?”

“Never had anything like it, young master!”

Encouraged, Luke carried the tray with pastries out of the kitchen and invited everyone he could find in the castle to try one. The consensus was that he had succeeded in his creation.

“Mmmm… very good, young master!” Extolled the gardener.

“From Tatooine, he said?… Out of this world,” whispered the seamstresses.

“Intriguing,” muttered Veers, simply. “And don’t think you have managed to evade me today. Tomorrow, you are in for a double shift.”

There were only three pastries left by the end of his round through the manor, and Luke wanted to save them for his father. Long after night fell, he finally heard heavy hoofbeats approaching the castle gate, and he ran down to greet him.

His father dismounted and handed the reins to one of his entourage. Luke noticed that he was dressed in full ceremony and very tired - the way he usually returned from being summoned by the Emperor.

He ran up to him.

“Father!”

Vader took off his helmet and returned his embrace.

“Luke… Shouldn’t you be asleep, young one?”

“And miss your Life Day?”

Vader stared, taken back.

“You didn’t even tell me,” Luke chided.

His father cleared his throat.

“It is… not something I usually celebrate.”

“Well, then it is high time we changed that.” Luke pulled him by the hand, and as they entered the great manor hall, Vader was blinded by a vast arsenal of streamers and colorful paper-folds hanging from the high ceiling.

“Happy Life Day, Father!”

Nella stepped forward, holding a white tray with a careful arrangement of three pastries, dollops of jam, and flower petals.

Vader appeared speechless for several heartbeats, taking in the scenery and pastries with wide eyes.

“The young one made them for you, my lord,” added Nella, proudly.

There was the slightest tremble in Vader’s voice as he responded:

“Impressive! Most impressive. Are these… _idrakhi_ , Luke?”

Luke’s smile was one that could melt a thousands-years-old glacier in less than a minute.

“Yes, they are! A bit different from the original, but… We tried our best.”

Vader pulled off his gloves, picked up one of the pastries, and tasted it. His face morphed through several expressions.

“Son,” he spoke with a grin, “did you mix up the salt and the sugar?”

“What?”

Luke kicked himself mentally for the mistake of never tasting his creation himself. He swiftly grabbed one of the two pieces left, and bit into it. His face sank. His father gently lifted his chin.

“Luke, I didn’t meant to… they are still… good! Very good, son. If we can just get some milk with them…”

“But… Everyone tried them,” Luke muttered, “No-one told me.”

He sounded positively dejected.

“It’s a pastry from a foreign land. Maybe people didn’t know what to expect.”

Luke rolled his eyes.

“They just didn’t want to disappoint me! I would feed these to the horses if I wasn't worried that I may harm the horses.”

Vader wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

“Come, son. I brought you some treats too, from Coruscant. Next time, you will accompany me,” he paused, and observing Luke’s deflated expression, added: “Do you… ah… wish to try making these again? Together? I have to add, you did get the rest of the spice mix right!”

Luke’s eyes lit up.

“Of course! But… when are we going to Coruscant?”

“Soon. The Emperor is anxious to meet his… grandson.”

Luke sighed.

“What if the grandson does not wish to meet his grandfather?”


	23. Day 17 [Angstober]: Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the destruction of the Death Star, Vader rages.

Vader climbed breathlessly, bitterly, out of the makeshift tent he was staying in overnight and peering up at the sky again. It was overcast, but he could still clearly see the smoke rising from the burning Death Star base, nicknamed for a cruel figure in the Alderaanian constellations. He ground his teeth when he saw it, but just clenched his jaw and dragged himself further to his feet.

He would _kill_ that rat.

The Death Star, admittedly, had not been his to command. It had been _insulting_ that his Lord Father, his Emperor, had given control of the most imperative military offensive they were running to _Tarkin_ , of all people, rather than his loyal apprentice. It had been doubly insulting when Palpatine had assigned him to serve _under_ Tarkin, to protect the base that would assure the conquering of Alderaan. The Governor, while effective in his control of Eriadu, and how he had obliterated the Rebels operating there, was arrogant, uptight; he could respect his policies but he could not respect the way he treated Vader, the highest lord in the Empire, like some attack dog—

But now he was dead.

The Death Star base had burned. The Alderaanian soldiers— _volunteers_ , mercenaries, since they were hardly a military worthy nation; that made it all the more insulting—had driven out the Imperial forces to beyond the mountains, re-establishing old, old mountain guards that had held the Empire at bay for fifteen years already.

Tarkin had broken through the blockade they held around their kingdom _once._

_Once._

He had built the fort immediately. Used it to coordinate attacks against the Alderaanian locals, farmers, low-level lords…

It had taken a month before he was threatening the capital.

It had taken a month before the base had finally been swatted.

After _fifteen years_ , that _pompous fool_ had _cost them that front in the war—_

No.

Tarkin was a fool. That much was true. Vader had frequently advised him against his reckless actions, against letting that impertinent princess escape so she could lead her forces into a final battle again them to be destroyed, once and for all. The gleaming spires of the city of Aldera had been visible on the horizon, from horseback, for a few precious days.

That had been a bloody battle. A brutal battle. But they were winning.

And then some insignificant _,_ half-trained runt and wretch of a mage had snuck into the Death Star base, sabotaged the sewage system and filled it with gunpowder. Then he had set it all alight.

That was the worst part: that rat had been a mage. A _powerful_ mage, if the misdirection spells he’d been casting to keep Vader from sensing his presence were so effective. He was powerful enough to have cloaked himself and his compatriots, to have got them inside the walls, to have laid the trap and to have escaped with his life.

But when he had destroyed that base, it was not with magic.

It was just with plain, ordinary fire.

Vader knew fire. He knew what it was to be trapped in a burning building—though admittedly not a half-exploding building—with what seemed like no way out. He was particularly irritated that some of the burns he’d sustained had caused old injuries to flare up again like this.

He did not appreciate this reminder.

He growled as he limped through the camp of survivors, glaring at any of the men already awake. In the watery grey dawn they were utterly still, boneless; they were afraid of him, but the fight in them had been blown to kingdom come along with Tarkin. They feared Vader, but they loathed and despised him too.

This was always the way. Always.

Vader was rebuffed by his father, made clear after he’d lost the duel to Obi-Wan and lost his wife and child that Palpatine had use for him only as an apprentice, now; he was no longer welcome to wear the sigil of the chimaera. He was subordinate to Tarkin, feared and scorned in equal measure. He was the demon of the Empire, the monster, the villain.

So be it. He didn’t care.

And he didn’t care that his leg was in agony as he dragged it through mud to get to his horse so he could pull out fresh supplies from the pack. His leg felt like it was on fire—it was. Vader was trapped in that manor for the rest of his life; he would always be burning. Always remember the way Padmé had looked at him, at the end, when she’d said she was leaving him, and taking their child with—

It was a wonder his teeth weren’t already dust with how hard he was grinding them.

But no matter. This was a minor setback, and did not affect Vader at all. Except for one thing:

He had a new enemy.

An old enemy, too: he knew that Obi-Wan was one of the mages working with Alderaan’s leaders in rebelling. That was why he had been so intent on breaking through, why he had served Tarkin so dutifully even if he hated the man. If there was nothing else meaningful that he could do with his wretched life it was this: find, and _slaughter_ , Obi-Wan Kenobi.

That man had taken everything from him.

It was time that Vader returned the favour.

And there was someone else involved in that now, because…

He would start slow. Obi-Wan had a new apprentice, it seemed: that boy in the Death Star. He was a powerful child, and he reeked of Jedi influence; it must be Kenobi.

He would find that boy. He would scour the continent for him just so he could tear him apart piece by piece, enact his revenge on the boy who had destroyed so much, had escaped against odds, had _usurped_ him as that man’s apprentice, and—most importantly—held him back from his ultimate revenge.

The boy would die. Perhaps he would be captured, tortured, and _then_ he would die, in front of Kenobi’s very eyes. There would be no safe place he could hide, no haven for the Rebel scum, no one left to mourn him when he was finished.

When the final blow came—for the master _and_ the boy—nothing would stay his hand.

Nothing.

As he limped back into camp, the sun rising proper, destiny’s blade carved a line in the fates. But Vader was too blind and deaf to notice.


	24. Day 18 [Angstober]: Condemned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke hears about the existence of the Death Star, the threat Alderaan is under--and the fate that has befallen his best friend.

The news came swiftly, six months into Luke and Ben’s operation on the front lines. Luke had barely adjusted to having a world blown apart every other moment by battle, to constantly healing man after man who’d been caught by a cannonball or slashed across the chest or trampled by a horse, to his magic reserves dwindling day by day by day amidst the exhaustion and chaos, when the one assumption that had kept him tethered through it all was shattered:

Alderaan was the bastion of peace.

It was the centre of rebellion. It was protected by mountains, by harsh streams, everything as beautiful and dangerous as a knife could be, despite the pacifist people who lived there.

Alderaan was _safe_.

And, therefore, _Leia_ was safe.

But when their fastest supply smuggler, Han Solo, dropped by that month, it was with news that proved all of that wrong.

Bail’s letter, hidden in Chewbacca’s immense pack, was agonising to read. It was meant for Ben, but Luke glanced at it first—as Ben’s apprentice, he was often given the job of skimming through his correspondences as they came, so he could report on their relative importance—and it caused the fire he was summoning so Wedge could cook his rabbit to roar intensely and go out.

“Hey! Luke, what’re you doing?” Wedge and Hobbie, crouched around the campfire, miserably poked at the now charred hunk of meat. “That was the last living thing I’ve seen all around here, why’d you—”

He paused when he saw Luke’s face.

“Luke?”

Luke didn’t know what to do. Chewie was staring at him, giving him a concerned glance, while Han was still over unloading the wagon. Wedge rose to his feet to put a hand on his shoulder; Luke had realised he was shaking, never mind how violently he was shaking, until his friend steadied him.

“What is it?” Wedge asked. He went to look at the letter but Luke folded it sharply, jerking away.

“I need to talk to Ben,” he said. “I need—Ben!”

And then he was running, running, running—soldiers glanced up and waved at their teenage mage sprinting across the field towards the tents, but their shouts dwindled as they saw his expression—he burst into the main command tent, General Dodonna turning to scold him harshly, he could see it in his eyes—

But then Dodonna, Rieekan and Ben all saw the expression on Luke’s face as well—and his trembling hand, and the letter he was holding out in it.

“News,” he said, voice barely a horrified whisper. “From Alderaan.”

Ben didn’t hesitate. He strode over and took the letter, unfolding it and scanning it. His eyes blew wide.

“Oh, Luke,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“What is it?” Rieekan asked sharply. “Kenobi, what—”

“The Empire have penetrated the Appenza mountain range,” he said. “They took the watchtowers and military base near Istabith Falls, and now stand poised to take the whole kingdom, including Aldera. And…”

Ben swallowed, glanced at Luke, then back at Dodonna—Leia’s uncle, almost; a mentor figure; a friend.

“Princess Leia was captured during one of her mercy missions. She has been charged with treason, resisting arrest… the sentence doesn’t matter. But she has been condemned to interrogation and death.”

The men in the tent were silent for a moment.

Luke’s heart beat a cacophony in his head. _Leia. Leia. Leia._

When had he last written to her? He’d promised to write to her. She’d made him promise to keep in touch and then he’d gone radio silent on her, so much left unsaid in the business of the last few months, cherishing what few letters she and he could send—

“Alderaan…”

Did she even know how much seeing her handwriting had meant to him, recently? Had he told her?

“Leia…”

Rieekan’s voice was a whisper.

“Let me go and rescue her, Ben,” Luke said. “I can do it. We— we can rescue her, put together a team, and get her out—”

“The Empire have built a vast military base there. The Death Star, they called it—”

“Bastards,” Dodonna muttered, “naming it after our mythology like that—”

“—and it grows by the day, hosting more and more soldiers. Governor Tarkin is in charge of it.”

Rieekan cursed. “That man will turn our kingdom into a wasteland of ash.”

“Not if we stop him,” Luke pleaded. “Unless— we _need_ to save Leia and destroy that place—”

“Luke, wait outside. Go and help Wedge and Hobbie cook dinner,” Ben instructed. “We will discuss this in more depth and inform you if we decide to use your skillset.”

Luke stared at him. “Save her, Ben,” he whispered.

“We will,” Ben said. “Now go. And Luke?”

Luke paused from where he’d turned to leave the tent, trying to calm himself. Failing. He was fifteen. He… he wasn’t prepared to lose his best friend now.

“It will be alright,” Ben promised. Dodonna and Rieekan looked on with sad, hard eyes.

Luke said nothing.

He just left the tent, and made his way back to the fire.


	25. Day 19 [Angstober, Flufftober]: Embrace | Hand-Holding

“Father!” Luke rocketed down the steps the moment Vader returned, and Vader tried to contain his smile. His Lord Father was never… _pleasant_ to visit, or report to, and this trip had been no less of a pain. Constant questions about how well Vader was serving him, how the war effort was faring in his absence—coupled with pointed implications about how he should leave Luke in his _grandfather’s_ tender care and go back to battle himself—as well as intentional jabs at what he _knew_ were Vader’s soft spots… It had got significantly worse since he’d found Luke.

It had got significantly worse since his soft spot, his point of pain, had blossomed into a living, breathing person that Vader would die to protect—something his father knew all too well. And Vader was growing increasingly short on excuses as to why he did not bring Luke with him on those update runs, why he’d kept the boy sheltered away, why he denied Palpatine the chance to meet _his grandson_ …

Palpatine was not an affectionate man. Vader knew that all too well—knew that he had been cast aside, all fatherly demeanour forgotten, the moment he had agreed to be his apprentice.

He did not trust the fact that Palpatine was trying to be affectionate with Luke now.

But he was back. He was home, and his child was running down the steps the moment Vader had dismounted, flinging himself at him, and on instinct Vader tensed, ready for an attack, but—

Luke threw his arms around him and hugged him so, so tightly.

Vader would never admit to a single tear escaping his eye, in the safe anonymity of his helmet.

“You’re back!” Luke beamed, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and Vader’s heart ached. Luke held out his hand and Vader grasped it tightly. “Come in—come on, I’ve missed you.”

Vader smiled back, at that. He felt soft, now, despite the rigid bitterness that had consumed his ride back.

This was his soft spot.

This was what Palpatine was so intent on exploiting.

This was what he had to fight so hard to protect.

“I need to talk to you,” he said. “The Emperor… has organised something.”

Luke wrinkled his nose. “What? What is it? I don’t want to—”

“I know, son. And I don’t want you to either. But the Emperor commands that we visit him for a weekend while he spends a week in his holiday home in Spinnaker—it is not too far from here.”

Luke frowned. “Spinnaker?”

Vader wondered what hellish stories he’d heard about that city-state while he was in the Rebellion. “Yes. It was where I grew up, after he adopted me.”

“I know. I’ve been there.”

“You have?” It was the Emperor’s home-city; Vader was surprised Obi-Wan had let Luke _near it_. “What did you—”

“You don’t want to know.”

Vader laughed, despite himself. “Don’t I?”

Luke smiled, a little mischievously, squeezing his hand again.. “You _really_ don’t.”

Well, Vader thought to himself. If he was forced to attend this ridiculous weekend, and spend time mediating between his Rebel son and his Lord Father…

At least he knew that Luke was make it interesting.

Though whether that was a good thing or a bad thing remained to be seen.


	26. Day 09 [Whumptober]: For the Greater Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chronologically, this snippet takes place after Luke's near-death brush with Vader that SpellCleaver so beautifully detailed here:  
> <https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755492/chapters/65900143>
> 
> And right before Luke and Vader's fateful duel here:  
> <https://archiveofourown.org/works/25555687/chapters/63307303>
> 
> I recommend reading these two ficlets first - it should make this one more enjoyable.

The grim report spread quickly within the camp: five Rogues had failed to make the rendezvous point after their last mission in Theed. And, in previously unrelated news, Viceroy Organa was still missing — now for a third day.

High Command called yet another emergency meeting, with a heated discussion underway on what steps should be taken next when an envelope arrived in the late afternoon and ground the talks to a sudden halt. It was brought in by a courier, who said he’d picked it up from the nearest Imperial outpost, twenty leagues east of the Alderaan border. He would not reveal anything beyond how well he got paid to deliver it.

The envelope bore an ominous black wax seal, imprinted with Vader’s personal signet.It lay heavy on the table between the members of High Command, who regarded it with alert fit for tracking a scorpion ready to sting. The name “Toivo”, inscribed meticulously in High Tongue calligraphy, stared back at them with dark foreboding.

Luke rushed through the entrance of the command marquee, disheveled. He had returned from a mission only half an hour before; High Command had not even had a chance to brief him. The youth approached the table, exchanged a few subdued greetings, beheld the envelope, and slowly ran a hand through his hair. All eyes were converged on him.

“I already heard,” he stated, simply. “Let’s have it.”

The young mage caught his Rebel monicker, inscribed on the envelope with resolute brushstrokes, and glared. If the letter bore the seal of Vader’s signet ring, did that mean he had written it personally? The thought chilled Luke to the core. It was nothing more than a piece of paper: it held no trace of its author other than the words he’d left on it. No powerful magic to strike at Luke, no menacing voice to call after him with that icy anger. He was safe here, yet disturbed that he had to remind himself even as Leia picked up the envelope and handed it to him.

“Do you want to read it yourself, Luke?”

Luke couldn’t read High Tongue past “Toivo” and a few other names. He didn’t want to reveal another of his shortcomings in front of Leia and High Command. Not today. And especially not because of this letter.

“No.” He looked up to Leia and tried to keep his voice casual. “Could you please read it for me?”

Leia nodded, and carefully broke the black seal. She pulled out a piece of thick cotton paper, which unfolded to reveal several stanzas, written in court-style calligraphy by the same decisive hand as the envelope. The hieroglyphs flowed with deceptive ease, spaced with a precision fit for a printing press template. The ink was bright crimson.

General Rieekan huffed:

“Do you think he wrote it in blood?”

A few Rebels laughed nervously. Leia stared at the piece of paper in her hands with raised eyebrows.

“It’s written as a formal declaration-of-intent poem. I haven’t seen one of these since my history lessons when I was twelve. I am not sure what to make of his choice.”

No-one noticed how Luke’s face had turned a few shades paler, his eyes drinking the red brushstrokes with keen attention.

“Let’s hear it, Leia,” Lady Mothma entreated.

“And, it is indeed addressed to Luke,“ the Princess added. She shook her head, took a deep breath, and began:  
  


"You proclaimed you would never surrender

Well — I do like a challenge, little rat

Your luck has been truly extraordinary

But it was just that: blind luck, and about to run out

  
By now you have most certainly noticed

That some key Rebel figures are amiss?

You can guess this affair’s grim status:

I hold their fate over my choice of abyss"

  
Leia paused and lifted her head to cast a rapid glance around the Rebel leaders.

“So… that explains a few things.” Admiral Ackbar’s grave voice broke the silence.

Yes. It certainly did. The constant worry gnawing on her over the past three days suddenly grew talons and sank them deep in her abdomen. Vader had them. The Rogues, and her father… She wanted to run outside, curse, kick something… Instead, she closed her eyes for a few seconds, schooled her features, and continued reading.  
  


"I’ve ordered a box carved richly of camphor,

Gilt in gold, iris blue and Alderaan white 

You’ll agree, it’s quite fit for one Viceroy —

Or at least for one part of him I have in mind"

  
Leia’s fingers curled around the paper, and her voice faltered. Luke cursed under his breath. He wished he could pluck that spiteful letter out of her hands and toss it in the fire — if it would only vanish any of its meaning as well! This was his fault. He had picked a personal grudge with Vader, pushed it too far, and now Leia, her father, and his friends were paying the price for his arrogance.

“Let me see this, Leia,” Lady Mothma approached and gently pulled the letter out of the Princess’s hands. She read the remaining stanzas in silence, and when she lifted her head to the rest of the group, her expression had turned bleak.

“The gist of it is…” she cleared her throat, “Vader expects Toivo to surrender three days from today, by sunset, at Black Forest Hill near Spinnaker. Otherwise, he will execute the hostages. He does not give exact numbers, but Viceroy Organa is certainly among them, together with the missing Rogues, I presume.”

Grim silence had settled over the room. A few members of High Command whispered among themselves, but it was Obi-Wan who spoke out loud first:

“Obviously, Luke can’t go.”

“Oh, I am going!” Luke exclaimed, recovered from his initial shock.

“No.” Leia speared him with one of her commanding looks. “There is no guarantee Vader would keep his word. We can’t lose you too, Luke. _I_ can’t lose you too.”

The rest of High Command erupted in chatter all at once, several members speaking over each other. Lady Mothma lifted her hand to regain the room.

“I agree with General Kenobi and Leia. From a strategic perspective, we cannot risk losing Toivo.”

Luke couldn’t believe his ears.

“We can’t just let them die! We have the location, we have the time!…”

“The bulk of our forces are hundreds of kilometers away, Toivo. And even if we managed to recall them in time by some miracle, we are not in a position to launch an open attack against Vader’s legions.”

Lady Mothma’s voice sounded like a pacifying funeral speech, and it got worse.

“We have to prepare to accept this grave loss, under the circumstances.”

“What?!” Luke looked around the table feverishly. No-one contradicted this ludicrous proposal, and he even heard some of the leaders murmuring in assent.

“Let’s put it up to a vote, then? All in favor of Toivo surrendering, please raise a hand.”

Luke’s hand shot up. His comrades gave him compassionate looks, but not a single hand followed. Had they suddenly gone insane?… He pleaded with Leia:

“This can’t be happening! You can’t just let them die! Your father, Leia! Let me go!”

“No.”

Leia’s face had gone pale, but she did not waver. Lady Mothma spoke again:

“It is decided, then. Toivo will remain in camp until this storm passes.”

_Oh like hell I will_ , thought Luke.

The Rebellion leader exhaled a heavy sigh, then turned to address the entire gathering:

“This is a trying time, but we can’t lose sight of the end goal. We can’t risk the entire war for a single battle. We will deeply honor the sacrifices of our friends and families, made for the greater good.” Her eyes rested heavily on Leia as she spoke the words. “Let us adjourn until tomorrow.”

Luke opened his mouth to protest, but General Rieekan cut him off:

“It is crucial that you do not leave camp for at least a week, Commander Toivo. I trust posting guards at your tent will not be necessary.”

Luke ground his teeth and pretended to nod. The Rebels filed out of the room with somber whispers. Many of them stopped to give condolences to Leia. Some came by to reassure Luke that he was precious to the Rebellion, and could not possibly surrender to Vader. Obi-Wan observed him with that particularly worried expression Luke found most vexing, and remained behind, waiting for him by the door. There was no escape from _that_ conversation, but Luke needed one last thing before he went. He approached Lady Mothma.

“I want to know exactly what he says, in that letter.”

He noted the blue circles under her eyes, her slumped posture. The Rebellion had suffered so many losses lately, and now this... The elder’s eyes, seemingly far away, finally focused on him, and she gently brushed his shoulder.

“I have no wish to read this again. But here,” she handed him the letter. “Take care of yourself, Luke. You will end up fighting him, eventually. But now is not the time. You remain our only true hope against them, and you are not ready. I am so, so very sorry.”

Lady Mothma turned and put a hand on Leia’s shoulder, nudging her out of the room. Leia made a sign to Luke that they would speak later. Luke acknowledged her, waited for them to leave, then turned to Obi-Wan with an anger he did not bother concealing from his voice.

“Now _why_ would you let them do this?”

Obi-Wan flinched.

“Must you really ask why, Luke?! I will never send you off to Vader’s clutches — not now, and not ever while I live!”

“But at what cost, Obi-Wan? Must he squash half of the Rebellion before you let me face him?”

His teacher did not respond. Luke thrust Vader’s letter into his hands.

“Just read it to me.”

There was again that icy undercurrent in Luke’s voice. Obi-Wan was unaccustomed to hearing it from this gentle boy, but he’d heard it many times before, he realized with a pang. From another young man, with an entirely different demeanor, a very long time ago.

He sighed and took the letter.

Luke did not miss how his teacher’s eyes went wide when he first beheld the calligraphy. He must have recognized the handwriting too, then.

Obi-Wan cleared his throat, and read the letter with scholarly neutrality, while Luke’s hands slowly formed into fists, nails biting hard into his palms. Vader had not spared threats, and his overbearing tone cleaved into Luke’s mind with the stark inevitability of an executioner’s ax. 

“I see,” he finally ground out, a while after Obi-Wan had finished the last stanza. He took the letter, excused himself, and took off from the marquee, leaving Obi-Wan’s request to talk later unanswered. When he reached his own tent, he closed up the entrance flap tightly, then kneeled by a small chest he kept under a low table next to his cot. He opened the lid reverently. Among the small collection of treasures inside lay a carefully folded piece of paper, tied with a red cord. Luke pulled it out with a trembling hand, opened it, and held it up next to Vader’s ultimatum.

He’d been right. He could recognize the handwriting anywhere, and even the style of the poem looked similar. The number of stanzas. The confident strokes, the predilected incline of some characters, the casual flair of others. All executed with precision Luke used to think exemplified a rare poise in the author, but now, “deathly” attached itself to the word in his mind instead.

He had seen his mother cry over this old letter, several times, when she’d thought Luke was asleep. Luke could vividly recall her hushed sobs. A letter, which, until this very day, he’d believed to be a keepsake she’d kept from his father. How wrong he had been!

Vader had disabused him of this illusion, at least. Now, he knew the truth. Just like Vader had promised to murder Leia’s father in a casual verse, he had apparently succeeded in murdering Luke’s.

His mind raged. Oh, he had long suspected that Vader had personally done harm to his family. The way Obi-Wan’s eye twitched at the mere mention of the name. The way he nervously glanced at Luke whenever any remote possibility for encounter with him arose in his missions.

But why had his mother kept this accursed letter all these years? Luke wished desperately to know what it contained, but he did not want to show it to Obi-Wan. If he returned alive, he promised himself that he would spend days studying High Tongue until he could read it himself.

Not that the exact content was that important. This letter was written in Vader’s hand, and it had made his mother weep. Luke would make him pay for every rhyme, every stanza. As thoughts of sweet vengeance continued to race through his inflamed mind, Obi-Wan pulled the entrance flap and walked into the tent.

“Luke. Are you alright?”

Startled, the youth quickly folded the old piece of paper and turned around.

“Uh… yes. Spectacular.”

Obi-Wan nervously glanced at the two letters still in his hand, and Luke placed them on the table behind his back. 

“Obi-Wan. Did Vader kill my father?”

“We have talked about this, Luke! I do not know. We strongly suspected… But never mind that. You need to stay away from this man, do you hear me? At all costs! He would crush you like a grape, or worse, should he ever get his hands on you!”

“All I know is that he’s made my mother cry, Ben. And he plans to do the same to Leia and her mother.”

Obi-Wan sighed.

“It is a deeply unfortunate situation, Luke. Why don’t you sleep on it, and perhaps tomorrow, we can brainstorm a better solution? Just please don’t get any ideas… How about we resume mage duel lessons tomorrow? Would you like that?”

Luke would have jumped with joy at this suggestion on any other day. But, it was too late now. He kept his expression neutral.

“Yes. I would.”

“Please stay put and get some rest. You look exhausted. I will see you first thing tomorrow?”

Luke nodded.

“Good night, Ben.”

“Good-night, my dear boy.” Obi-Wan took a few steps and extended his arms for an embrace. Luke accepted it, trying to stop the tears forming in his eyes. He hoped the light in the tent was dim enough.

Obi-Wan cast him another examining look, but in the end, there was nothing more to say. He just returned Luke’s wan smile, and left, hoping for more clarity tomorrow.

When Luke could no longer hear his footsteps, he pulled a small backpack from underneath his cot. He would need to carry his chainmail out secretly as not to attract attention while walking through camp, then change in the woods. He was scanning around for the rest of his battle fatigues, then Wedge and Hobbie stormed into his tent.

“Luke! We just wanted to say… We are so sorry, Commander.”

“Yeah…” startled, Luke did not know how to respond. Had they noticed the chainmail pulled out on his cot?…

Hobbie spoke again:

“Listen, Luke. You are tired, so we will get straight to the point. Did you keep that letter? Because we have an idea.”

Luke positioned himself to hopefully hide the armor from their line of sight and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Do I even want to know?”

Wedge chimed in with a devious smile:

“That pompous prig has some calligraphy skill, Luke! We can probably sell his piece of writing for a fortune in Spinnaker. Plenty of fanatic Imperial fanboys there. Oh, and we’ll make sure to emblazon ‘Sponsored By Darth Vader’ on any new piece of armor we procure with the money! I bet he’d chew up his own brushes when he finds out. That thought alone will keep me warm the entire winter.”

Brilliant idea. Luke wished he was in the mind to truly appreciate it. He chuckled, made sure to grab the right letter and envelope, and handed them to Wedge.

“Here. Just make sure to get an emblazoned piece for me too!”

“Oh, thank you, Luke! We will pay extra to get yours in crimson letters!”

Wedge stashed the letter safely in a pouch, saluted, then the two Rogues wished him good-night and filed out of the tent.

Luke sighed and returned to packing his mismatched bits of armor. The Force whispered that he had less than an hour left before Leia’s conversation with Lady Mothma would be finished, and she would inevitably stop by to see him next. So, he had to snuff out the candle and take off before that. He could not lie to her. With some luck, Leia would believe him asleep, and his absence would not be noticed until morning.

How had Vader put it in his accursed poem? That she would always see in Luke the reason for her father’s death in a cage? He would never allow it. No-one would be left to die so that Toivo could live. Vader knew he would get him on his knees to save the Viceroy and his friends. There was no point pretending otherwise.

When everything he needed was finally stashed in his backpack, Luke returned his attention to the chest by his cot and pulled out one of his two most precious possession. His father’s kyberblade felt reassuring in his hands, wrapped in its worn velvet cloth. He held it out to feel the balance - it always helped him focus. Then, he kneeled before his make-shift altar table. His mother’s portrait smiled at him, peeking behind a small vase he’d arranged for her with dried flowers — the best he could do in winter. He wondered once again whether she had known the sequence of rune-words that activated this dagger. The young mage sighed and bowed to reverently rest his forehead on the blade. The cool metal soothed him.

“I wish you were with me, Father,” he whispered, “Just for one moment. To know that I’ve always held you in my heart.”

Next, Luke took his other most prized possession out of the backpack and reverently left it by his mother’s portrait. It was a small silk pouch, richly embroidered. He placed a kiss on his finger, then ran it over the vivid firebirds and dragons, and that small heart she’d hidden just for him on the inside of the cover. Luke would never risk her handiwork be sullied by the touch of Darth Vader’s hand. 

Yes, Vader may be powerful, but Luke was exceedingly lucky. Hadn’t he successfully foiled the dark mage’s plans for years? He could feel the twin blades of magic and destiny set out to trace a new dance tonight — a clash between Toivo and Darth Vader. Surely, his destiny would not lead him to a hapless death at the hands of the man who'd murdered his father. There had to be more.

Luke blew out the candle.

“May the Force give me justice,” he whispered in the direction of the altar, and pulled his shabby hood over his head He snuck out of the Rebel camp with surprising ease, then veered into the forest, deep into the freezing embrace of the winter night. He would have to find a horse tomorrow, or some other form of transport to the outskirts of Spinnaker. He hoped to make it there by nightfall of the second day, and possibly get some sleep before the third. And then, for the greater good, he would make Vader face his destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can read Vader's entire letter here: <https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755492/chapters/66273160>


	27. Day 20 [Whumptober]: Lost, Medieval World

“Luke?” Obi-Wan said quietly. “Luke, are you alright?”

They were riding from Naboo to Tatooine, and Luke had just… started gaping. Randomly. He was staring all around them, everywhere, and couldn’t seem to believe anything.

Obi-Wan frowned deeper when Luke didn’t respond. “Luke?” he coaxed.

Luke was still staring. “It’s so… barren,” he whispered. “It’s all yellow. _All of it_.”

“Tatooine is very different to Naboo and Alderaan,” Obi-Wan agreed. What else could he say? “It… it is much hotter. Much drier. Much more—”

“I already don’t like sand.” Luke was eyeing it from atop the horse with intense suspicion.

Obi-Wan laughed. “You haven’t touched it yet.” He didn’t mention that he would dislike it even more once he had.

“I don’t like it.” He frowned mutinously. “Will I ever see Leia again?”

Obi-Wan didn’t respond.

“Will I ever see Aunt Sabé again?”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan promised. “You will. She has promised to come and visit—and you’ll meet some other aunts while you’re at it, a few distant relatives of your grandmother.”

“I want Aunt Sabé,” was all Luke said.

Obi-Wan didn’t know how to respond to that.


	28. Day 18 [Angstober]: Condemned, or "Vader's Ultimatum"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we have Vader's ultimatum of a letter, in full. From the [For the Greater Good](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755492/chapters/66235943#workskin) snippet.

You proclaimed you would never surrender

Well — I do like a challenge, little rat

Your luck has been truly extraordinary

But it was just that: blind luck, and about to run out

By now you have most certainly noticed

That some key Rebel figures are amiss?

You can guess this affair’s grim status:

I hold their fate over my choice of abyss

I’ve ordered a box carved richly of camphor,

Gilt in gold, mountain blue and Alderaan white

You’ll agree, it’s quite fit for a Viceroy —

At least for that one part of him I have in mind

Unless you appear before me,

In three days time, by the last trace of light

I’ll send my gift of a box to his daughter —

A most precious friend of yours, am I right?

And one thing I do promise you, Toivo:

When she opens it — she will scream, she will rage,

And henceforth, when she lays eyes upon you

She’ll see her father’s slow death in my cage

You were in dire need of a lesson —

One I am only too happy to teach:

Each man has a key, and a breaking point

Both of yours I now hold in my reach

So — not only will I see you surrender,

Not only will you to beg their release,

But to make it truly count before me, Toivo,

You will do so head bowed —

On your knees.


	29. Day 21 [Whumptober]: Chronic Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke sees to Vader's mechanical arm.

“That’s so cool,” Luke breathed, gently brushing his hand over his father’s arm. It was probably the most complex thing he’d ever seen, tiny metal pieces interlocking and interlocking and interlocking again until it formed the structure of a hand—Vader had never been proud of his alien limb, so this was a totally strange experience to him, but a warm fluttering took up residence in his chest.

He smiled slightly, and flexed the hand, of a metal so polished it appeared to be made of gold. The tiny cogs spun and whirred, the metal rods and ligaments moving up and down. Luke gaped. “ _Wow_.”

Vader glanced at Luke’s fingers, brushing along his palm, the ridges there, painstakingly careful to be gentle. He wished that he could feel that touch, on the inside of his wrist there; it would be vastly preferable to the phantom pains that wracked him sometimes, so intensely he couldn’t breathe.

“Did you make this yourself?” Luke asked. Vader broke himself out of his reverie.

“Yes,” he said. His father, after Vader had told him he had no interest in bearing the crest or name of Palpatine anymore, had wanted to either leave it a stump or affix a wooden stick there to simulate it, that would have given him agonising pain for the rest of his life—to _heal faster_ and _become stronger_ , as was always his mantra. _He only wanted the best of power and strength for his son._

Vader knew, looking at Luke, that that had been a lie—because there was nothing on the continent that would pay him to hurt him like that.

“Do you think you could do it with all the limbs?” Luke asked thoughtfully. “You could put them together, make a mechanical person—with the help of magic, of course…”

Vader smiled. “I suppose that would be possible,” he said, putting all thoughts of his father—and of the impending visit to Spinnaker—out of his head. Luke was here; Luke was what was important. “If you are interested in helping me undertake such a project, I still have some books I used to build it…”


	30. Day 22 [Angstober]: Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Palpatine hears about Luke.

This was not something he had been expecting.

This was, he dared admit, a _surprise_.

Typically, Sheev Palpatine, Emperor of Galactia, did not like surprises. He enjoyed plotting and planning everything, to ensure it fit his design. While there had been good surprises from time to time—the discovery of his difficult apprentice and son, a terrified and half-dead boy in the desert, had been a windfall in terms of the sort of mage power he now had at his personal command—overwhelmingly they threw spanners in his works, disrupted his careful vision. The Mage Council wanting to train his son. The Death Star task force being driven out of Alderaan and their military base destroyed.

Padmé Amidala.

She was long dead, of course—as all hindrances to his plans should be. He’d made absolute sure of it, years and years ago. But even then, the damage that the _surprise_ of his son’s infatuation with her had wrought still lingered.

The Rebellion had grown in and under her name.

His native land of Naboo still favoured her memory over his.

And his pathetic apprentice still clung to her and their time together like it was the only thing that kept him from drowning.

But the surprise of Padmé Amidala, in this case, may have also yielded something _useful_.

He curled his lips in a smile as he read the letter, sent to him by one of his spies. Vader would tell him the truth soon enough, he was sure, but his apprentice was _hesitant_. He was revelling in this. He no doubt wanted to keep this boy secret and safe right now, but he would write to Palpatine about it soon. He always did.

Palpatine was very much looking forward to the moment he would get to me his _grandson_.

Toivo. He knew that name. That was the name of the brat who had destroyed the Death Star—the orchestrator of _that_ unpleasant surprise he hadn’t expected. The brat Vader had raged about for over a year, chasing him, who’d had the near misses at Hoth and Yavin and so many other places.

Toivo.

Vader had captured Toivo.

And he had found his son.

The twin swords carved their patterns as mysteriously—and ironically—as ever. Vader chased a boy and tried to kill him, only to find it was his beloved lost child. Toivo— _Luke Skywalker_ —defied the Empire with every breath, like his mother before him, before finding out he was an important part of it.

Palpatine had tried to kidnap a child seventeen years ago, and now that child delivered himself right to him.

He had never heard back from the agent he had sent—the agent that had tracked down Amidala to where she and Kenobi had fled to have her child. Palpatine knew she had survived past the duel, though he’d never seen fit to let his wayward son know such a thing: she was dead _now_ , and that was what was important.

The spy had failed to acquire the child for Palpatine.

He had failed to provide the new Emperor with the power and leverage that would have confirmed his grip on this continent forever.

He had regretted it for years. Hoped that Amidala’s child had died with her, even, so he did not have to deal with its survival. But it had not—and now here he was.

With his father.

Another weakness to exploit. Another heart to control. Another bottomless well of _power_ to obtain.

Palpatine smiled to himself, gazing at his map of Galactia, the city-states that all belonged to _him_ and the vast, vast nowheres in between them. That boy could hide no longer.

He simply could not wait to meet his grandson.


	31. Day 23 [Angstober]: Prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan is tossed into a cell, deep underneath Vader's manor, and contemplates his regrets.

It was a dingy little hovel they tossed him into, but at least it was clean and dry. Padmé’s manor was barely recognisable in the arches of the corridors, including the still-scorched stone that Obi-Wan recognised so acutely, and that just hurt even more.

Of course Vader had resurrected his old home, but made it into naught but a twisted version of what it once was.

The moment the guards shoved him he gasped, landing hard on his knees—the floor was clean, but cold and hard, and the chill seeped into his bones the moment he made contact. The screech of the door clanging shut behind him was deafening.

_“…what’s this guy about anyway…”_

_“…some mage, enemy of Vader’s—say, did you hear the gossip about—”_

_“…a_ son _? This guy kidnapped Lord Vader’s_ son _? You gotta be having me on…”_

Son.

Luke.

Obi-Wan found the strength, somewhere, to push himself up onto his knees and sit cross-legged in the corner. He could access magic here, of course, the Force was always with him, but… It was _hard_ , to touch it when he’d dragged himself across the woods in the frozen snow to reach Luke, only to have reached him too late, to be forced to save him only by revealing his existence to the one man who threatened his existence above all others—

Where was Luke?

What had Vader done to him?

What would happen to his apprentice now?

Obi-Wan swallowed, and tilted his head back against the wall with a sigh. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Luke had fled to rescue Bail and the others—Leia certainly hadn’t been, when she’d made a beeline for Luke’s tent as soon as she could to find him gone. But Luke had _promised_ , he’d looked him in the eye, and…

And lied.

Of course Luke had gone to rescue them. That was who he was. He was his father’s son.

He was his mother’s son.

_Padmé_ …

Wherever she was now, she was surely cursing herself for leaving her boy in the charge of a fool such as him. And he deserved it—deserved it, because…

_Luke_.

Luke was his father’s son, no matter how much his mother had taught him her ways, no matter how much Obi-Wan had tried to steer him away from it. That was his nature, and Obi-Wan knew it had hurt Padmé in the moments it was most clear, when one could look at Luke and see the crowing little boy who’d crowned the kind stranger he’d met as the Queen of Spring.

Luke was his father’s son, and now he was left with the demon that remained of his father.

What would become of him?

What would become of Obi-Wan?

_Why hadn’t Vader already killed him?_

He sat there for hours, tormenting himself with the thoughts of it all. He didn’t think, couldn’t think, of anything else. There was just Luke, the boy he’d raised for so many years, the boy he’d watched grow up… His beloved Rogues, and how well he’d led them… Leia, his best friend, who had been the first to know exactly what he’d done and why…

Should he have told her the truth, before he left? It was cruel, perhaps, not to—to let her think that Vader was just going to kill Luke.

(Should he have told _Luke_ the truth, before this, he had to wonder—but he pushed that thought away.)

Or would it have been crueller to give her hope that Luke could be saved? Even if Luke survived, no force could breach these walls, and Vader would not stand for it. And after time…

What would his sweet boy become?

What had he done?

Suddenly, he was desperate. He needed to know. He needed to know what Vader was doing, why, how, and—

He was on his feet, his bones aching with the bruising cold, grasping the metal bars. Icicles wrapped in his palms, they seared into him, and he was trembling.

The guard standing to the side of him rattled the bars and they vibrated into his teeth. “Oh, what’re ya doing now, old man?”

“The boy,” he gasped out—reached for magic, his persuasion magic, but as he reached—

“ _Ow!_ ”

His magic flared, burst like a guttering candle that burnt too quickly, and fled. The bars glowed red and his palms stung.

Embersteel.

Of course.

Vader would do that.

He… it had been second nature, clamping down on his magic before, but now, as long as he tried to use his magic…

It would burn.

He laughed bitterly to himself. Vader certainly had a twisted sense of humour.

And what was he doing to Luke?

“The boy,” he insisted through his hoarse throat. “The boy who was with me, the injured boy, the boy Vader fought—”

“Vader’s _son_?” The guard’s voice dripped with contempt—clearly he thought both his friend and Obi-Wan were having him on.

But Obi-Wan nodded desperately. “ _Yes_.”

And the guard hesitated.

“I ain’t heard nothing from the torture cells,” the guard said. Obi-Wan… let himself react.

But then, the guard said, “Though the walls are soundproof.”

And Obi-Wan, still wracked by fears nothing could assuage, bent over double, his shoulders shaking.


	32. Day 24 [Whumptober]: Blindfolded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Princess Leia Organa is captured and brought to the Death Star.

Everything hurt, and it hurt in a way that it hadn’t since she and Luke had trained with swords in the Palace gardens, whacking each other into meat, blood and bruises. She was a princess, if a Rebel princess; the most pain she got on a regular basis was when her wrist hurt from too much writing and her voice hurt from too much hurting. Her head pounded when she stayed up late to read reports and letters; her teeth hurt when she ground them too hard after constantly listening to sycophants grovelling; her feet hurt when she walked and stood too much. She had been neglecting her combat training in recent months, despite her furious desire to be out there fighting—there had simply been too much to do.

But now…

Rough hands seized her and she winced when they forced her to her knees, images flashing to mind—the men in the mountains, attacking her transport, swords flashing as blood spurted and the Alderaanian men around her died.

Someone had grabbed her, tried to drag her away, someone shouting at her to run and don’t look back—then a gunshot from the side embedding in her calf and she shouted out and there was a sword at her throat and now—

The blindfold they’d tied around her head was so tight it ached. They’d tossed her in the back of their wagon to bounce around with the supply barrels in the dark, battered and bruised. A rough bandage had been tied around her leg to keep her from bleeding out too quickly, but it hadn’t been cleaned, and none of the thousand cuts on her arms and around her neck had been addressed.

Where was she?

What was going on?

Who were these men—Imperials? Why were they…

They’d dragged her out of the wagon after far too long trapped in the dark, shoving her down on a rocky ground that cut into her bare knees, her hands seized and tied behind her back. She spat blood on the floor, hissing.

Then she froze.

Terror filled her.

There… there was a _breathing_ coming. It was faint at first, but the rough, tinny sound of breath through a mask like that was unlike anything that came through the helmets of the standard Imperial troopers, and—

She tried to shrug off her bonds, trying to struggle— _no_ , no, no, no—

“Lord Vader! We have captured the Alderaanian Princess, as Governor Tarkin requested. She was travelling to Chandrila, presumably smuggling information or—”

“Spreading lies with her politician’s tongue,” growled a voice, and she _flinched_. That was Vader alright. He was _here_ — “No doubt. But she is here. Tarkin will have what he needs.”

She lifted her chin boldly, summoning the courage to ask, “And _what_ , exactly, is that?”

“You will tell us under interrogation,” Vader said dismissively. She thought she heard him turn away. “Get her up. Take her to the cell. And get her blindfold off.” There was a sadistic pleasure in his voice as he said, “I think she would be highly interested in what we have built, here.”

There was a hand knocking into her head then light pierced her eyes, the rough cloth falling away. At first, she squinted and glared, then she looked around as much as she could, staring…

At a mountain.

A mountain field, a plain, and a road that wound to just behind it.

And past the mountain, a beautiful view of her kingdom.

She blinked. “ _What_!?” They were so close! This—this was near Cloudshape falls, this was the entrance to Alderaan, there were meant to be scouts here that kept the Empire far, far away from her home—

“Get moving, Rebel scum.” Her captors dragged her to her feet and shoved her again, stumbling forward to where the road curved. “You have a cell waiting for you.”

A _cell_?

Then they turned the corner, and she saw it.

She swallowed.

A massive base, constructed of wood and stone, half-built _into_ the mountain. Big enough for thousands of troops, it stretched as far as she could see, and the farther she walked the farther it went, hidden from view from the valley but… but at a perfect vantage point to…

“Welcome to the Death Star military base, Princess,” Vader told her.

Leia swallowed.


	33. Day 25 [Angstober]: The Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padmé rides off into the unknown for an unknown reason, leaving her son behind.

Luke was asleep as she packed her bags and saddled her horse. Eopie bumped his nose against her shoulder and she glanced up at him with wide eyes, patting him on the neck and tying the travel bags to his saddle before she left the stables to see her son one last time.

Luke grumbled, kicking at the sheets in his sleep and muttering about something she couldn’t quite make out; she smiled to herself, perched on the edge of the bed, and put a hand on his shoulder. He stilled, rolling over to lean into her touch, and she rubbed small circles into his arm with her arm.

This was dangerous, what she was embarking on.

She hadn’t been back to Theed since… everything had happened. And while where she was going wasn’t exactly Theed itself, it hurt even more, held more memories. Held more people who would want to kill her before she unlocked them.

But she had to go.

What she’d learned… she had to find out whether or not it was true. She needed to know the truth, or it would haunt her forever, even if it meant looking death itself in the face to demand answers.

If it was true… it would be phenomenal.

More than anything she’d hoped for.

If it was true, it changed _everything_ —and might be the best chance Luke had to grow up in a world that was safe, for mages and little boys alike.

She was doing it for him. But she wasn’t unaware enough to think she was doing it _just_ for him.

She was doing it for herself as well.

She had to know.

She wanted it to be true.

And if it meant riding out in the middle of the night, into the unknown, to find out… She was willing to do that.

She leaned down to kiss Luke on the forehead, extricating her hand from his grip and brushing back his curls. “I’ll see you in a week, little star.”

She rode out not ten minutes later.

And despite what she’d promised… she would never see her son again.


	34. Day 26 [Flufftober]: On the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padmé, Luke and Obi-Wan, on the road.

Life as a Rebel leader meant she had to move around a lot—this was hardly the first time that they’d evacuated a place they’d called their home for months in a hurry. The stars arched overhead as they trotted along on Eopie, Luke asleep against her front, lulled by the horse’s rhythmic movements. She tightened her arms around him slightly to draw him closer to her chest. He was warm against the night.

Luke took to their life well—he was adventurous and excitable, just like his father, and going on Eopie time and time again, travelling to new and distant towns, never failed to elicit some sort of awe in him. And he was resilient through it all, even as Padmé never told him that the smoke they could see on the horizon was their old abode going up in flames.

She smiled down at him, pressed a kiss to his head. He didn’t wake up. 

“You know,” Obi-Wan said from beside her, just as bundled up against the cold. His horse sped up slightly so they were in line with each other. “Anakin had a stepbrother.”

Padmé said, “I know. What of it?”

“I know you worry that Luke isn’t having a… well, what one could call a stable childhood. If that is an ongoing concern, I took the liberty of reaching out to them—they would be perfectly happy to take him in.”

Padmé didn’t react at first. The wind blew around them as they continued down the moonlit road, the clop, clop, clop underneath them a soothing monotony. 

“You want me to leave Luke behind?” she said finally.

“I feel that it would be best for him. I would stay and protect him—train him, when he’s old enough.”

Would it be best for him?

Would it be best for Obi-Wan, who could train Luke to be the mage his father had not been?

Would it be best for Padmé, who could pursue her goal of a free continent without fearing for her son’s life every minute of every day?

Luke snorted in his sleep and rolled his head, thumping his cheek against Padmé’s shoulder slightly. He was listing just off to the side, still firmly in her arms but unstable enough that she was uncomfortable, and she gritted her teeth, dragging him back against her chest.

“But I don’ wanna fight an owl…” Luke mumbled, and Padmé tried not to laugh.

All she said was, “He stays with me.”

“Padmé…”

“He stays with me,” she repeated, so, so firmly, and kicked Eopie into a canter, leaving Obi-Wan’s disapproving face in her dust.

Luke was resilient. They both were. This wasn’t ideal, this wasn’t safe, but neither, exactly, was Tatooine—and nor was anywhere else on this fate-forsaken continent. 

At least with her, she could protect him.

And in any other circumstances, she thought, slowing again so as not to disturb him, letting him press against her seeking warmth, he almost seemed to protect her, as well.


	35. Day 27 [Flufftober]: Half-written

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Luke & Padmé stuff, because I love them: Luke still has an old, half-written letter of his mother's.

She had been gone for years, and the letter remained unfinished. Luke had no idea who she’d been writing to, or why, or even what she’d been writing _about_. His mother had been a leader in the Rebellion—she’d had so many topics to discuss, so much to cover, so often… It was a wonder he’d got to see her as often as he had.

It was a wonder she’d still made time for him every day, kept him close by.

Until she hadn’t—and she was gone.

Luke… couldn’t read High Tongue. She’d started teaching him and then… well. It hadn’t been completed, certainly not by Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen, who couldn’t read High Tongue themselves. Even if they had, he suspected that she’d written this in code. 

But if he couldn’t glean the meaning he could at least take comfort in the familiar strokes, the scent that had long since faded to a memory.

It was long gone now—replaced by an entirely new scent, from the washing liquid the maids had used. He’d forgotten about the letter hidden in his boots when he went to fight Vader, one of the many compartments Han had taught him to smuggle stuff in. It had been dragged through snow, soaked almost all the way through; it had been lightly rinsed when the maids had taken the boots for washing afterwards. Then they’d found the compartment, and the letter, and panicked.

“Apologies, sir,” one of them had said profusely when they came to drop it off to him. Luke could tell they hadn’t tried to read it; they probably couldn’t read High Tongue either. “It— we didn’t know it was there, we were taking care of the boots when—”

“Am I ever going to see the boots again?” Luke asked. Not lightly, but not bitterly, either.

The maid averted her eyes and scurried away.

Luke assumed that meant that his… his _father_ had confiscated them. Or tossed them. Either one worked.

It didn’t matter. He had the important thing.

He quickly unfolded it, as careful as could be—it was a letter written on parchment, so it was fairly tough, but he still didn’t like how wet it was. It was a miracle it hadn’t torn, it hadn’t ripped, the words hadn’t—

They _had_ faded, to an extent. He couldn’t see some of them nearly as clearly, and he blinked at them, frowning a little. He felt like he’d lost a piece of her all over again.

But the sun was high in the sky and streamed through the window of the gilded cage Vader had locked him in. He wandered over to the windowsill and laid it there to dry, watching the rays of light touch the ink with tentative fingers, hoping it didn’t bleach the writing even paler. He couldn’t bear that. 

He just took the chair next to it, and stared.

Maybe… maybe he should ask Vader to teach him writing.

He didn’t know if he should—he was still adjusting to lessons with Veers, still finding them uninspiring—and he… didn’t know if he’d have to say _why_. If he should tell his father about the letter.

If he should tell his father that his mother had _lived_.

He loved her. That was obvious. This entire manor was a shrine to her memory, pure and unparalleled in his blissfully ignorant mind, but… how would he feel if he learnt she was the legendary Rebel founder he’d cursed, hunted and scorned for so long? Luke could still remember places going up in flames as they rode away from them, because Vader, the Emperor’s enforcer, had come to find them.

Should he tell his father?

Even if it was just to find out what the last piece of his mother really meant?

He didn’t know. 

He frowned fiercely—melancholy. He didn’t know what to do. He was lost.

But he had her letter.

So he smiled at the familiar calligraphy, the loops and curls and the way she wrote _Love_ , and let it bring him strength.


	36. Day 28 [Angstober]: Whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke wakes up to find his mother gone.

Luke woke to starlight streaming in through his bedroom window and suspicion stirring under his skin.

He yawned, wriggling around under the covers—and then he noticed: Mama was gone. Usually she was in the bed next to him, there for him if he was scared or restless, but she was gone.

Sometimes she worked too late… Aunt Sabé always told her off when she did, sometimes she got up to write more letters or do more sums in the middle of the night, when she should be sleeping… Luke listened closely and heard voices.

A glance at the big, moon-faced clock on the mantelpiece told him everything he needed to know: it was three am. Mama shouldn’t be awake—and neither should Aunt Sabé, if she was talking to her. Luke should tell them.

He rolled out of bed, wrapping his fluffy blue dressing gown around him and slipping across the smooth floor in his bed socks. The hallway had carpet on so it was easier for him to walk quietly—which was good, because when he heard what Aunt Sabé and Ben—Ben, not Mama! Where was Mama?—were saying, he wanted to hear more.

“Where is she, Sabé?” Ben pushed urgently. He sounded like he was _hissing_ , like the adder Luke had seen in the grass the other day. “This isn’t like her, she can’t just take off in the middle of the night without so much as a word to me or Luke—”

He pricked up when he heard his name, and crept closer. Not to the top of the stairs, but just to the side, peering through the banisters. Their voices drifted upwards.

“She didn’t just _take off_. This was planned,” Aunt Sabé hissed back. “She’ll be back in a few days, and it will change _everything_.”

“If it’s so important, why didn’t she tell me!?”

“Ask her yourself, Obi-Wan.” Luke had never heard Sabé sound so _cold_. It was scary—he knew she was scary, to people she didn’t like, but hearing this— “Perhaps there was a _reason_ she didn’t think she could trust you with this?”

“And she didn’t think to so much as inform her son that—” Ben cut himself off. “Wait.”

“What is it—”

“Luke,” Ben called up to him, voice calmed down again, but sounding tired. Strained. “It’s late, you shouldn’t be awake. Go back to bed.”

Luke scowled. The game was up. He sat himself at the top of the stairs and stared down at them, kicking. “Where’s Mama?”

Ben pressed his lips together. “I don’t know,” he said. “Ask _Sabé_.”

“She’s on a mission, Luke,” Sabé said gently, shooting Ben a nasty look. “She’ll be back soon, and you’ll see her. She’ll tell you then—I bet she’ll have a surprise for you.”

“But she didn’t even say goodbye!” he whined. “Will it be a good surprise?”

Sabé smiled at him. There was a lot of purple under her eyes, though he wasn’t sure in the funny candlelight. “Yes. It will be a wonderful surprise. Now go to bed, or you won’t be awake to see it!”

“Alright.” Luke gave them both a sceptical look. “Only if you two go to bed as well. You need to sleep, auntie.”

Sabé laughed, softly, to herself, and turned away from Ben. “I do,” she said, climbing the stairs. She offered Luke her hand. “Come on, let’s go to bed. Padmé will be back in the morning, and she’ll have great news for us. You’ll see.”

Luke did not see.

He would never see.

Because the morning after that, Padmé did not return—and Luke was left alone.


	37. Day 29 [Angstober]: Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Luke nearly dies at Vader's hand, after the incident in the freezing river, Obi-Wan thinks about Luke and Vader and wonders if he should tell anyone the truth.

Luke was asleep in his tent when the news came in, recovering from his traumatic experience. Obi-Wan wasn’t familiar with the symptoms of procedure of nearly freezing or drowning—no, it was burning that he was acquainted with—but he was glad that Luke had finally had the chance to rest, to get back to camp and _rest_ , let himself heal. He…

He had thought he was going to lose him.

Obi-Wan hadn’t cried in years—it always seemed like a pointless waste of time when he had a child to train, a Rebellion to run—but he was shocked to find tears prickling at the back of his eyes now. He blinked for a moment, marvelling at the way they only built, and built, until they crested his eyelid and slipped down his cheeks.

He’d seen Luke get cornered on that bridge, so much raw terror in his face, and he had never been so afraid.

He’d thought that Luke was about to die.

Luke, his apprentice, Padmé’s son, Anakin’s son… He had almost died.

At the hands of his own father.

He reached out, took Luke’s limp hand, pressed it between his own. Bowed his head over it. The tears continued to fall; they dripped off his face and onto their entwined fingers, one by one by one.

Luke was alive. Luke was breathing. Luke was _here_.

Luke had escaped.

But… what if one day, he didn’t?

Anakin… if he knew that Luke was the child Padmé had been pregnant with, if he knew that Luke was his son, he wouldn’t kill him. He wouldn’t kill him—but the alternative would be worse, as he took him to be the perfect son of a lord of the Empire, tried to force him to be what Anakin’s poisonous _Lord Father_ wanted for Anakin, as Luke was imprisoned and put under pressure and humiliated in front of an Imperial elite until he was made to conform. Anakin would want to possess his child; he would not love him. He would only hurt him, the way he always only hurt the people he loved, and it would be hell for this precious boy.

Luke still missed Padmé. He still idolised his father, from the few stories she’d told him, unable to break his heart with the truth. If Obi-Wan told him the truth, Luke would walk into Darth Vader’s sword expecting a parent, and all he would find was a monster.

But if he did not know… if _neither_ of them knew…

If neither of them knew, then things would continue as they had. Obi-Wan would receive report after report, just like this one, about Toivo’s bounty climbing. It had already surpassed Leia’s, or all of the Rogues’ put together. Vader wanted Luke dead, and he wanted it _fiercely_.

If he found out who Toivo truly was, would he spare him?

Or would he simply execute the son who had dared stray so far from his vision?

Obi-Wan didn’t know. All he knew was that this ongoing secret—the secret, he suspected, Padmé had _died_ because he was keeping—was a burning stone in his stomach. It grew heavier and hotter with every passing day.

One day, one way or another, it would explode.

And when it did, Obi-Wan would have to watch his life burn down around him all over again.


	38. Day 30 [Flufftober]: "You had to be there"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the destruction of the Death Star, Luke attends a ceremony where he is awarded the title of Toivo for his heroism.

The Alderaanian palace was a beautiful place, but in recent years it had become a grim one too. Constant bad news from the war front, constant worrying about the Empire’s ruthless expansion, constant relatives, siblings and children being sent out to fight, had all taken a toll on the people therein, their miens becoming downcast and upset. Pessimism had reigned—and rained.

Now, the turrets smoked, many walls crumbled from attack, and the residents’ faces were pinched with hunger—but nothing had seemed more festive in years.

Riding into the palace gates, Luke had thought that this was the oddest mood he’d ever observed—one had to be there to understand it, to understand how safety had become fear and hope had blossomed in the ruins of it. And one would have to be there to appreciate the truly beautiful decorations the palace had been decorated with, to see and wonder at the splendour of it all. Alderaan had been bloodied, bruised and beaten back—but not broken. They retained their cheer.

And cheers went up later that evening when Luke, dressed in the finest clothes the Organas could lend him, stepped through the doors of the great hall to kneel before the throne and receive the honour they would bestow upon him for rescuing their kingdom.

The great hall was bedecked in silver, white and blue, the colours of the Alderaanian royal family. The ceiling was a glass dome open to the heavens, with the brightest of constellations wheeling above them, set against the velvet night like diamonds. Only a handful of braziers blazed in strategic places, highlighting the doors, the royal family, the dais he would stand and bow on, in harsh, brilliant light; everything else was starlight.

Nothing but starlight.

Faces were shadows with smiles—broad, beaming smiles, and voices that thanked and cooed to him. Their clothes caught the light to glitter like a shimmering sea. The crowd parted for him; he glanced around nervously and despite the shadows he saw Obi-Wan, smiling proudly at him in that restrained way he always did. For one painful heartbeat he thought he saw his mother, lurking in a shadowy corner—then at his gaze, she moved forwards, further into the light, and he saw Sabé. He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

_ She’s proud of you, _ she mouthed. Luke bowed his head, not wanting the braziers to highlight the tears glistening in his eyes.

Finally, he lifted his chin and his gaze to the dais itself. Two thrones sat there, tall fires lighting them clearly. Breha wore all silver, Bail a gentle blue, and both smiled at him as proudly as Obi-Wan—but Luke’s gaze was drawn to his friend.

Leia did not sit on her empty throne, at her mother’s left hand. She stood right before the steps, hands clasped patiently, bold and resplendent in white with her hair coiled behind her head. She was beaming at him; he beamed back.

This was his best friend.

She was the face of the kingdom he’d fought so hard to save.

He mounted the steps to the dais, conscious of how loud the tread of his fine black boots were against the wood, and knelt at her feet, bowing his head almost to the floor.

She held out her hand. He took it, kissed it, and before she took it back, she gave his a reassuring squeeze.

“For the service you have done to our kingdom,” she said, loudly and clearly, “and the dedication you have shown to the war we all wage against tyranny.”

He took a deep breath, letting it flow through him, letting it relax his shoulders. He could feel a thousand eyes on his back, the Spinner herself pausing to watch his destiny solidify. 

Leia beckoned, and the familiar her family kept—Threepio—stepped forwards with a scarlet cushion, a brooch laid heavy on it. She lifted it delicately in her hands, letting the thick blue and red stones catch the light, glinting.

“Luke Skywalker, we grant you the name, and title, of _Toivo_ ,” she said. “For you have brought hope back to us all.”

He lifted his head to look her in the eye, and she gestured for him to rise. He did—standing still so she could gently fasten the brooch to the lapel of his bright yellow jacket. 

The starbird was caught in mid-flight, its crystal eyes all seeing—the eponymous starflower clasped in its beak.

He felt tears prick his eyes at the sight of that. 

“Thank you, Toivo,” she said. “For all that you have done, and all that you plan to do.” She smiled differently, then—an amused quirk of the lips. “Would you honour me with a dance to begin this ball?”

This was non-negotiable. Luke knew the traditions of Alderaanian balls—and, thanks to his childhood friendship with Leia, he knew how to dance at them.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t certain that she was amused at his lack of enthusiasm. 

“Of course, Your Highness,” he uttered, and accepted her hand to lead her into the middle of the floor.

“I’m proud of you, Luke,” she whispered when the music began, and no one could hear them. “Thank you for everything. You… you were a hero.”

He spun her around gently, watching the way her white dress flared out with the movement. His cheeks hurt from smiling.

“You’re my best friend,” he told her. “There’s nothing to thank me for.”


	39. Day 31 [Angstober]: Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When exploring the manor, Luke finds a picture of a monster.

It was a strange, striking moment, when Luke first noticed the portrait of the Emperor hanging in one of the back rooms of the castle.

He’d been exploring for days before he found it, tucked away in the most unpleasant guest room at the top of the manor—practically an attic. It hit Luke then that he hadn’t seen any images of Palpatine anywhere else, for all that this was a massive building, half-manor half-castle, owned by Palpatine’s loyal adopted son. Luke wasn’t _complaining_ , but…

The reason he’d been exploring so much in the past few days was because his father had gone to speak to the Emperor. He’d done so before—he seemed to have to ride out there every month, and Luke had been with his father for three months by now—and every time he returned he was grouchy, stiff, anger simmering underneath his stoic mask…

Luke had noticed. He wasn’t a fool.

He knew that his father, though he seemed cheered whenever Luke was in the room, and though he tried to hide it from him, hated visiting Palpatine. It was torture for him, somehow.

Why would Darth Vader, terrifying war mage, embersteel-crowned demon, living nightmare of the Rebellion, deal with a master he hated so much? Vader was powerful—Luke knew that. He… he was a monster, almost. And though he’d proven himself to be someone worthy of _some_ sympathy, someone who loved Luke and his mother, at the very least— _someone who deserved the truth about her,_ echoed at the back of his mind and he pushed it away—and who had people like Piett and Veers loyal to him, wholly and unquestioningly… he was still somewhat, well, monstrous.

If he hated his father, why didn’t he just kill him?

Why was he loyal to him?

And if he didn’t hate him… why was his portrait in the back guest room?

Luke tilted his head to observe the place in more detail. It _was_ a pleasant room, for all that it was in the attic of the main bulk of the manor. The windows were large with a lovely view of the front courtyard and road, the countryside beyond; the bed was bedecked in lovely shades of red and white sheets; there was a lovely bathroom, a lovely thick carpet, and a lovely, lovely dresser with a massive mirror that made Luke feel small the moment he looked into it.

Then there was the portrait of a rotting carcass, slapped right in the middle of it. Right opposite the bed—the bed decorated with the Imperial cog carved into the header, emblazoned on the sheets—it hung there, staring at the poor resident as they slept.

It was… a good painting. Luke couldn’t really pass judgement on whether or not it was a good likeness; he’d never met the man—his… _grandfather_ —before in his life. The painting was layered and textured beautifully, the black robes dark enough to sink into the abyss with, his smile perfect and uncrooked, though Luke wondered if the tint of yellow the artist had put into it was intentional. His eyes in particular stood out—Luke didn’t think he’d ever seen someone with irises so golden and bright.

It was intimidating.

Like his father’s.

_Family resemblance,_ Luke would’ve thought, had he not known there was nothing biological between them.

Otherwise, Palpatine looked… like a pleasant man, though a rapidly aging and sickly one. Perhaps the poor impression was just Luke’s Rebel bias showing through; he knew full well the artist would’ve been executed if they’d depicted the Emperor in an unflattering fashion, and the portrait would’ve been burned. Vader would probably have not hung it in his guest room if it was burned.

Palpatine was smiling. His face was wrinkled in a grandfatherly fashion— _nope, no, not thinking about that_ —and despite the black robes, the shirt that peeked underneath it was a rich purple, embroidered with Imperial symbols, the chimaera, and… something else.

Luke squinted, and looked closer.

It was a spinner’s wheel.

Interesting.

He knew the legends about who the founder of the Palpatine family was.

He swallowed, continuing to examine everything about him. This room was thoroughly explored. That was it. He’d found the place. He could leave.

But his gaze kept being drawn to that portrait.

The all-powerful Emperor of Galactia.

The man who’d caused so much suffering.

The man his father served.

He had never met him. He’d read his speeches, heard people speak in his name, seen his men pillage and plunder and persecute. But he had no idea what he was actually like.

Would his father make them meet, sometime soon?

And if so, what should Luke’s expect?

He didn’t know. He probably should.

For years and years, Luke had feared Vader. He was the face of the Empire, the one who chased them for days on end, who fought and tried to kill Luke, who captured Bail and the Rogues and lured him to die in the snow…

But his father was not a monster.

Perhaps that was wishful thinking, but he believed it in his bones: his father was not truly a monster.

And yet the Empire was monstrous.

So did that mean…?

It only made sense, he supposed, studying anew the portrait of the kindly old man who crushed civilisations in his grip and made even Lord Vader shake in his boots, that the true monster of the Empire would be the man right at its heart.


	40. Day 31 [Angstober]: Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin struggles to pick up the pieces of a new reality after his devastating duel with Obi-Wan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snippet takes place right after [Chapter 01, "I did it for you."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755492/chapters/65271823)

Days draw by, and the first weeks follow. The maimed Palpatine heir misses his father’s glorious coronation in Corusca. Servants and healers tiptoe by their young master’s door, carrying out long lists of tasks day and night. The shock of his tragic retrieval is slowly subsumed by the painstaking care routine his condition demands. His screams fade with time too, and sediment into an ominous silence. Whispers of his fate spread in waves like wildfires through the estate. Some say that he has lost his vision, others — that he has lost all limbs. Some wonder if he can still fulfill his duties as heir. All agree that he has suffered gravely, and will never be as he once was.

The servants’ compassion for their young master is cut short by their Lord and new Emperor, who, having just recently returned from Coruscant, gathers them up in the courtyard one night, and has his Chief of Guard swiftly execute the trio directly assigned to his son’s rooms.

“From this moment forth,” His Majesty hisses, “those who spread rumors about my son will not meet such a merciful end.”

A deathly silence about Master Anakin’s condition reigns in the castle ever since.

The weeks turn into a month. The young lord shows interest in nothing and speaks to no-one. His only visitor remains his Lord Father, who comes to his suite at exactly four o'clock each afternoon, and leaves at precisely five. After weeks on bed rest, the elder Palpatine orders him taken out once a day on a chair with wheels, made special for him. His eyes are too sensitive for the daylight, so the servants bring him out at dusk. Everyone learns for certain that he is missing an arm, and his head and face are still heavily bandaged.

“Where would you like to go, my lord?” they ask, but there is no answer, nor a sign. When they try to wheel him to his beloved Labyrinth that first evening, he stirs his remaining hand, and the ancient carved stone arch by the entrance crumbles down with such a force that later, the garden crew has to dig up the pebble-sized chunks with shovels.

The Head Chef keeps making Master Anakin’s favorite dessert, the Spinnakerian — a famed three-layered confection of dark chocolate, mulberry mousse and orange custard. Despite his best efforts, it comes back untouched every night. When he hears about the stone arch by the labyrinth, he cries.

Emperor Palpatine has to leave for Coruscant again and orders regular reports on his son’s condition. Anakin seems to flash in and out of awareness like a flickering candle, and the servants who knew him once wonder if he would ever be truly alive again.

A dust-covered messenger arrives on the estate late one night and is brought up to Anakin’s rooms. The young master makes his first attempt to stand on his own then, with the help of the servants. He hasn’t used his voice for so long, that it sounds gruff and foreign, changed beyond recognition.

“Did you find her?” he rasps, and the men holding him look away with trepidation, for they know very well who he means.

The messenger delivers his report in an even tone, bows deeply, and leaves. Anakin collapses in his bed and refuses to eat the next day, and the day after that. The Head Chef has mobilized the entire kitchen staff making a wide range of nurturing broths, but it is of no use. Disturbed, the Castellan dispatches a note to Emperor Palpatine to beg his return from Coruscant. The Emperor comes back, and after some days of extended visits to his son’s rooms, Anakin begins eating again.

One by one, the bandages slowly come off. The servants who wheel him out at dusk observe that the raw skin on his remaining hand is bright red and covered with scars. The castle orchard, in full bloom in cascades of white and pink, the fresh scent of spring wildflowers, the haunting songs of the nightingales - they seem to go unnoticed.

The day the healers remove the last bandage from his face, they do so with voices kept low, facial expressions held perfectly neutral. When finished, they bow even deeper than the messenger and leave his rooms with the respect one reserves for their dead ancestor’s tomb. Seeing Anakin Palpatine now is a deep shock for any of the staff who knew him before. Their notably handsome, full of life lord has become an emaciated, scarred husk of a man, staring out his tall diamond-paned windows with vacant eyes for hours at a time. Spring may be in full swing outside, but its spirit of renewal is helpless against the castle walls.

The Emperor orders a prosthetic made for Anakin’s missing left arm, but does not issue an official statement about what has occurred, nor about his son’s position within the Empire. Perhaps he is waiting to see how well he would recover first.

Anakin can take short walks now, too, on crutches, but he has no wish for it.

Three days later, the stricken lord asks for a mirror. He waits for the servant who brings it to leave. Then, he lifts the silvered surface to his face, and even though he has prepared himself for what he is about to see, a groan gets caught in his throat. He laughs instead, as tears roll down the uneven planes of furrows and ridges that have become of his cheeks. Unable to bear the image, he looks away, and his gaze catches on the colorful confection resting on a silver tray on his bedside table: three smooth layers of chocolate, purple and orange, a perfect delight served on the finest white porcelain. A cruel, jarring remnant from another lifetime, like everything else in this room. Framed collections he’d prized above anything from his childhood still hang on the walls - two glass panes with colorful bugs and butterflies, one with rare coins from all city-states in Galactia, another two with rocks and crystals, and yet another with petrified shark teeth, ancient flint arrowheads, and a cacophony of shells and sea-glass. On his desk, carefully folded and regularly dusted, still lay his star charts and clockwork toy schematics. Everything here was frozen in time — a time from another life he could never return to. He fails to understand how, in the span of just a few short minutes, Obi-Wan had managed to sentence him to this cursed existence he is meant to live now.

He folds his hand into a fist, and the mirror shatters, a few shards cutting deeply into his scarred palm. He throws the remnants against the wall, takes a hold of his crutches with great difficulty — his new prosthetic arm is good for little else than a decoration, while his other hand is slick with blood. Then, for the first time since he was brought back to the estate, he leaves his rooms of his own will.

Night has crept over the vast gathering of storm clouds he glimpses through the gallery windows, and the wind howls through the ancient nooks and crannies of the castle. A rare storm is about to pelter Spinnaker in the midst of Spring.

His Lord Father… now Emperor, is in his study, poring over legion allocations on his immense map, carved from colorful marble slabs — one for each region of Galactia. The ornate wooden figurines atop stand at attention, silent. Soldiers, ships, and war machinery, all ready to move according to his Father’s wishes, like everything else in the world.

Anakin inhales the familiar scents of parchment, ink, and that astringent odor lacing through the expansive collection of dome-covered curios and murky potion jars lining a large portion of the tall, black bookshelves.

Emperor Palpatine lifts his eyes and closes the report he is perusing with a snap. He is dressed casually in a flowing black robe, lined with one single strand of royal purple. And there is that tinge to his eyes his son rarely spotted before, but nowadays seems to pervade: the yellow glow of Sith magic, recently used.

“Why did you save me?” Anakin growls without preamble, his hand dripping precious blood over his Sire’s silk carpet. “You should have let me die!”

“Would you care to enlighten me as to what this drama is about?” his father asks cooly, brushing a few specs of dust from an Alderaani cavalry figure.

“I do not want this life!” Anakin yells, and throws one of his crutches over the map, sweeping half of Spinnaker’s fleet off the table. “I never asked for it!”

“You think I should have let you die like Kenobi intended?”

That name seems to catch his son’s attention. His breath quickens.

“My only heir, to be lost because of the machinations of one trifling Jedi? Pah!”

The words are slow, deliberate… skillfully chiseling through Anakin’s reasons and defenses like they usually do. The elder Palpatine’s gaze sharpens and bores through his son’s scarred face.

“Never underestimate just how much your defeat at the hands of Kenobi has disappointed me, Anakin. But we both need to pick up the pieces now. We have an Empire to build.”

Anakin flinches, raw hurt flashing over his face. Then he scowls.

“I believe I came here to tell you that I do not care, Your Majesty.”

The young man is prone to a stubborn streak, his Father knows better than anyone. But he also knows how to get around it.

“You are barely twenty-two, your entire life still ahead of you, **son**. It would be a pity should you decide to throw it all away, instead of taking revenge on those who have wronged you. Those who broke apart your own _family_. And, there is always the avenue of pursuing the knowledge that could bring _her_ back.”

Knowledge only the Emperor can give his son.

Anakin’s scowl wavers, and he looks away.

“She may yet be alive,” he utters, weakly.

His Majesty sighs a deeply theatric sigh and moves to place a hand on his son’s shoulder. He knows that the words proclaiming Padmé’s death don’t need to be said out loud. Anakin stares at him with hollow eyes, and hidden in their blue depths, the Emperor can already see the sparks of hope. His son: so powerful, yet so predictable.

“If we work together… we could bring her back, Anakin.”

“How?…”

“The only possible way: you will take your place by my side, as a Sith. You will receive my teachings, and develop your full potential.”

Anakin shivers under his father’s hand. Dark shadows are gathering in the room, like predators ready to strike.

“It is your destiny, Anakin. It has been, ever since I plucked you from that cursed desert, half-dead. Your life has been built up to this point, for this purpose. It may not have happened quite as we had hoped, but you know it to be true. There are mysteries in the Force that only you can unlock, my boy.”

His son stands quiet in the dimly lit room, hurt and anger shifting over his face in a quick race.

“You…” he suddenly sneers, “You have had a hand in this all along. Do not think I do not realize it, _Sire_ ,” he spits out the last word, but his father only smiles.

“I may have had a hand in many things, but your own wife’s betrayal was certainly not one of them, Anakin, and neither was your conflict with Kenobi.”

Anakin’s anger explodes into the room into a whirlwind of shredded parchment and broken glass.His father swiftly erects shields before his entire study turns into a crater.

“Enough!” He admonishes and tries to shake Anakin out of his stupor. “I am all you have left now, son. Just let me help you.”

Anakin recovers and takes a step back. His father’s hands drop from his shoulders. He steadies himself on his weak legs, shifting so much weight on his single crutch that he fears it may give under him. Then, he steadies his voice.

“A Sith Lord has an apprentice but no son, Your Majesty.”

The elder Palpatine narrows his eyes and pauses.

“Is this how you truly want to play it, Anakin?”

“I meant exactly what I said.”

The candles in the room flicker and shadows sweep down from the dark corners to dance over Emperor Palpatine’s face.

“So be it.”

He turns, walks to his desk, and retrieves a kyberblade that Anakin has never seen before. As his Lord Father approaches him again, it glows bright crimson in his hand.

“Kneel.”

The command is uttered in a voice Anakin has not quite heard before either, laced with dark power that courses through him like an electric shock. He is tempted to disobey. Would his Lord Father end him here on the spot? Would Anakin be glad for the mercy?

But as is his custom, Emperor Palpatine has once again calculated the alignment of circumstances and people correctly. His son has indeed nothing left but him, a scorching desire for revenge, and a nebulous dream to take things back to the way they were before.

Anakin does not have enough strength in his legs to kneel by himself, so he releases his hold on the crutch, and his knees buckle a short second later. He braces his fall with his injured hand, and the cuts send angry shocks of agony through his right arm. He gasps, takes a few moments to gather himself, then brings himself up to kneel properly. He lifts his face to meet his father’s gaze with a bitter, defiant glare.

The spring storm rages in full force outside. Lightning flashes through the stained glass windows, their rich shades of purple casting the walls in a theater of movement, followed by darkness.

Some of the lightning returns, crackling around the dark silhouette of Emperor Palpatine as if he were a venerable friend. He lifts the blade and touches Anakin’s left shoulder, whispering words in an ancient, sibilant language he does not understand. Then, his Lord Father passes the dagger slowly over his head, to rest the blade on his right shoulder. More words spring forth, and the youth feels the searing binds of unfamiliar magic unfolding with the incantation, tying his fate to the fate of the man wielding the dagger. Pain courses through his body as if exploring his most vulnerable points, and he grits his teeth, stifling a scream.

“Oh, Anakin…” His Majesty’s words are hard to discern, rumbling in his new apprentice’s ears. “What a powerful Sith you shall become!”

The lightning bolts around the Emperor whoosh and twist in a tangle of blinding flashes. He lifts the dagger up, and channels their power, cackling, until a single blue spark remains, then fizzles out with a bang.

“Henceforth… you shall be known as Darth Vader.”

The elder Palpatine shivers from the high that only such potent binge of magicks can bestow, and rests his gaze on his new apprentice. His eyes glow bright yellow, and his breaths come heavy and rushed. Anakin was broken, true — in body and spirit. But in the depths of this mess, the Emperor sees a grand silver lining. With the Naberrie complication gone at last, he has the opportunity to reforge his son from the ashes. With tears and blood, in his own image.

“Rise, my apprentice.”

Anakin may refuse the name Palpatine, but his father would ensure he behaved like one. And since he has no wish to wait for his stunned son to puzzle out how to get up from the kneeling position he’d so willingly dropped himself into, he barks the time and place for their first training session tomorrow and moves to leave the study.

“You’re a monster!” Lord Vader snarls through gritted teeth. He is trembling, the leftover shocks of the binding spell still coursing through his body.

“Yes?” His Father turns back from the door and smiles with a stifling triumph. His voice is solemn and grave as if sealing an oath. “Now… so are you.”

The storm outside has quieted to a soft patter, caressing the magnificent stained glass windows. It takes Lord Vader no less than a quarter of an hour to bring himself back to his feet.

“ _At least,_ ” the Emperor muses on his way back to his chambers, “ _Kenobi did not chop off his sword hand_.”


	41. Day 26 [Angstober]: Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A direct continuation of the previous chapter [Day 31, Monster](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755492/chapters/66781168)

Newly named, the young Sith stumbles back from his master’s study through the gallery. It is a long walk, and by the time he reaches his rooms, he can barely hold on to his crutches and has to lean on the wall for support. The servants have already tidied the space and cleaned up the mirror shards. By tomorrow, they will have cleaned up the smears of blood he’s left in the gallery, his rooms, and the Emperor’s study. Perhaps they would even be able to lift the stains from the silk carpet. Just like nothing ever happened.

The Spinnakerian still sits by his bedside table, shiny and tempting on its dainty porcelain plate. Someone has covered it with a glass dome and left a bottle of pear cider next to it. This confection… It is her favorite, too, singled out over the entire formidable range of pastries Theed has to offer. The memory flashes before his eyes in vivid detail.

“As if marrying you wasn’t treason enough,” she quips and pokes a finger to his chest with a bright laugh. A touch he is death-certain he would never feel again. A laugh he would never hear.

He takes a swing at the glass dome, and it shatters, flying off the side table and sweeping the cider bottle with it. Vader turns away. He can’t bear to see the broken pieces.

Three servants on late duty are called to young master Palpatine’s rooms for another clean-up. He sits in his inner parlor like a stone gargoyle, his right hand freshly bandaged, and pays no heed to them. But when they are about to leave, he calls them in a voice so cold that the youngest in the trio shivers.

“Wait.”

They stop by the door, turn, and lower their gaze in respect, but not before noticing this dangerous yellow glow in his eyes, one they have only seen before in his Father’s.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Tell Chef I don’t want him to make…” Lord Vader falters, suddenly unwilling to say the name of the confection, “ _this…_ ” he motions at the mess they are about to carry out, “ever again! He should have taken the hint by now,” he pauses. “Or, there will be consequences.”

“Yes, my lord,” the eldest among the trio assents with another deep bow, then they flee the room. They know too well how precarious the moods of a man with yellow eyes can get.

On their way back to the kitchens, the servants are caught in the same thought, but no-one dares speak it aloud. Their esteemed young lord, the pride of Spinnaker, a boy who in all his years here had never been unkind to the staff, seems truly gone. This new lord, having risen from the ashes, bore little resemblance, and spoke harshly on each rare occasion he condescended to open his scarred mouth.

The next day, Lord Vader demands to be moved to a single room, up in the left wing’s lone tower. He dismisses his servants, and day by day, the folks in the grand estate think about him less and less. Since no-one ever sees him, and His Majesty no longer mentions him, many wonder if he has died in that tower after all, and has been secretly buried. The older members of the staff who remember him growing up silently mourn his passing.

Autumn arrives with a glorious splash of color that year, and on a crisp Sunday morning, the servants must ponder the identity of another lord: a tall man who no-one has managed to see arriving, but is about to leave the Castle. He is accompanied by a small retinue of black-armored knights, bearing an unfamiliar red sigil next to the Imperial cog. On his head, the lord wears a full-face daemon mask crowned with jagged thorns of embersteel, and his finely wrought scale armor swallows the bright morning sunlight in the embrace of a yawning abyss.


End file.
